Battling the Demons
by KidsNurse
Summary: BOOK TW0 Sequel to 'The Devil, You Say'.House is home from the hospital, things should be better now, right? Psychological introspection, angst, hurtcomfort, etc.Indepth study of dynamics between House,Wilson,and Cuddy. COMPLETE 08.30.06
1. Chapter 1: Home

**A/N: **_This is the sequel to the fic I posted last month, "The Devil, You Say." I've tried to arrange it so that this is a stand-alone, but it **is** a sequel, so… we'll see, I s'pose! _mjf

**Disclaimer: **_Imagination and mistakes--mine. House M.D. et al--Fox, Shore et al_

BATTLING THE DEMONS

CHAPTER ONE: Home

As Wilson unlocks the door to the apartment, he doesn't look at House; he knows better. He'd thought that House would sleep in the car on the way from the hospital; he _should_ have slept. But he'd just sat quietly in the passenger seat gazing out the window—the same haunted stare he'd had in the parking lot at PPTH. When Wilson had turned on the radio, House had simply reached out, wordlessly, and flicked the dial off. He hadn't said a word; he still hasn't.

_It's been a long weekend, _Wilson thinks. _And twenty-four hours of IV morphine, hasn't cleared his system yet—he's still sedated. That's all it is. Gotta be weird for him; first time in a long time that thigh's not clenching on him. Hasn't even had time to really process knowing that the breakthrough pain's over. Just need to give him time._

And now, they're home. And House has made it up the small concrete staircase by sheer force of will. The procedure to end the breakthrough cycles has taken more out of him than any of them had expected, and he's weak—even more unstable on his feet than usual, and no stamina left at all; his hand trembles on the grip of the cane so fiercely that the cane itself is shaking. _God, Wilson, get the door open already, _he thinks.

They enter the apartment and House heads straight for the couch, collapses into it. He grabs the remote, turns on the television, carefully props his legs on the coffee table, and stares at the TV screen. _Quit eyeing me like a doctor; just go the hell away, okay?_

Wilson reaches into the bag Cuddy had thrown together, removes the tools of his trade—stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, pulse oximeter, penlight. "House, set of vitals, all right?" He sits next to House on the couch.

"Do what you gotta do." House's affect is flat, and he doesn't look away from the television. _No, it's not 'all right,' does that make a difference?_

"Sorry, but you and Cuddy railroaded me into bringing you home; just gotta keep a_ real_ close eye on the vitals for a couple of hours." He wraps the cuff around House's upper arm; B/P's a bit low, nothing too bad. House wordlessly holds his wrist out for the pulse, silently sits forward without being asked and breathes deeply for the breath sounds, leans back quietly for the cardiac assessment. He grabs the portable pulse ox, puts it on his finger himself, turns his hand so that Wilson can read the number—95—removes it and sets it on the table. He never speaks, never looks at Wilson.

"Let's do the neuro, and then we'll be done for a while." _Now what are you gonna do, House? You have to look at me for this. _Wilson picks up the penlight, reflexively lifts a hand to steer House's head towards him, thinks better of it and lowers his hand. "House," he says, raising the penlight and turning it on.

Like a blind man, House turns his head toward the penlight, but looks neither at Wilson nor at the beam. When Wilson gently holds an eyelid open, his fingers feel House flinch away from the touch.

"That's finished; can you get to the bedroom by yourself?" _Just get some sleep; things'll seem better in a few hours._

"If I'd wanted to go to the bedroom, I'd already be there." _I don't want to go to sleep—leave it alone._

Wilson decides to give him a few minutes, goes into the kitchen. He takes his time scooping some pudding into a bowl, pouring a glass of milk. He thinks about calling Cuddy. _And what'll I tell her? House won't talk to me, won't look at me? House is acting… weird?_ _It'll sound like I'm running to mommy._ Finally, he rejects the idea, puts the food on a tray and goes back to the living room with it.

"Here, I brought you your first real food in two days!" He tries to put enthusiasm into his voice, but House ignores him. He holds back a sigh and sets the tray on the table.

House, never removing his eyes from the screen, moves his left leg the few inches to the tray, and slowly, deliberately sweeps it from the coffee table. For the first time since they stood in the parking lot, he turns his head and meets Wilson's eyes. "Oops." Both his voice and his eyes are tinged with something resentful.

_Yell at me—get angry. Treat me like I'm just a normal person who did a mean, stupid thing. Throw the sponge at me and tell me to clean it up myself!_ House sighs and returns to the show when Wilson just shakes his head and walks to the kitchen.

---

Wilson's giving himself a pep talk in the kitchen, but it isn't helping much. "This is great, just terrific," he says to the empty room. "At the hospital, House gets into trouble because I act like family. At home, _I_ get into trouble for acting like a doctor. He's lucky—if I _were_ acting like family, that stunt with the pudding wouldn't have ended quietly. That was idiotic, even for House."

But House, Wilson reflects, is entitled to express a little over-the-top anger. Wilson remembers how he'd felt the moment he'd realized what they'd all been doing to House for so long. _He was curled up on the floor in agony. That might've been bad enough; maybe I'd have believed him then. But when I saw his team there, I knew. I just knew._

It was that collapse in front of his fellows—it had cost House his privacy, his dignity—which had convinced Wilson that the last few months had been nothing short of a miscarriage of humanity. House had been the victim. _And I was the one leading the attack. That bet with Cuddy I tricked him into, and telling him it was all psychosomatic, riding him about the frequency of his scrips. All that, and still…. _

He closes his eyes, visualizing House gripping his wrist, hearing the wonder in House's voice when he'd said, "_I'm trusting you._" And Wilson is, finally, doing his best to earn that undeserved trust.

Wilson remembers the pain control procedure, a continuous morphine drip designed to disrupt the breakthrough pain cycle which had been making House's life hell for so many months. They'd found out the hard way that the drip had worked; despite a dream so horrifying that House had paid an enormous toll, both physically and emotionally, there'd been no sign of breakthrough pain since the procedure.

Wilson will remember all his life the stark terror on House's face when the nightmare had been going on. But even that hadn't compared to House's utter panic when Wilson had managed to awaken him. The dream had been so real that House had awakened convinced his leg had been amputated.

It wasn't until Wilson had positioned him so that his arm was lying across the leg that House had calmed. And then the most remarkable thing had happened. Because the awful dream had taken away the last dregs of strength House had, because House, incredibly, was still aware enough to become agitated when his hand had slipped off the leg, Wilson had given him a bolus of morphine. Then Wilson himself had sunk into the bedside chair, intending to rest his head for only a moment. The memory of what occurred next is so vivid it transports Wilson back; he's there again, in his mind, and he relives the event which will stay with him forever.

House somehow, with an effort nothing short of superhuman, had managed to lift his hand and move it to Wilson's bowed head, had attempted a weak, awkward patting motion. And then, incredibly, he'd spoken. In a voice so soft that Wilson wondered for a moment if it was just a thought inside his own mind, House had said, _"S'okay, Jimmy. We're safe… s'okay… I'm… here…"_

And Wilson had realized that House was trying to comfort _him_. Through many layers of sedation, through House's own reticence about feelings, through unutterable physical weakness, House had met his eyes and tried to soothe him.

The hope inherent in this memory makes Wilson smile. "Makes up for a lot," he says aloud. "Almost makes me think he forgives me, a little. Almost makes me think everything he had to go through this weekend is worth it to him. That makes it worth it to me, too. And if he can forgive me… well, someday I may even forgive myself."

But several of the untoward incidents House had suffered during the weekend of treatment were, in Wilson's opinion, made worse by Wilson's difficulty in remaining objective. It had been difficult for Wilson to overcome his own insane desire to try to make it up to House for those months of unnecessary agony, the months of distrust. Wilson believes that his own reluctance to allow his dearest friend, his _brother_, to suffer any more, had on several occasions only added to the problem. As a result, he's determined that during House's recovery he will concentrate on the patient, and not on the friend.

---

House's conversation with himself isn't going so well. He can hear Wilson mumbling in the kitchen, and House comforts himself with the knowledge that at least _he's_ not giving a monologue aloud to an empty room like Wilson is. _Okay, so I went too far with the tray. Not like him to take it so calmly, though—he must really be pissed! Didn't mean to upset him that bad; just want things back to normal._

The weekend of treatment had been the culmination of months of intractable pain, pain no one else, including Wilson, had believed was physiological. And the added pain had cost House more than just a sharp decrease in physical health; his already-compromised ability to trust had gone through the shredder and come out virtually destroyed.

Wilson had come through for him in the end, though. When House had collapsed in front of his team, his friend had handled everything. Wilson had even administered that first dose of morphine without recriminations, without questioning the need. And House had felt the first stirrings of trust being rebuilt.

_Jimmy just knew. When he had to come through, he did. Always does. Wish he'd quit beating himself up about it, though. I do enough of that for him; that's my job. _He smiles at the fuzzy but definite memory of Wilson at his bedside, talking to an apparently unconscious House about their friendship:

"_Okay, House,"_ Wilson had said_. "It's you and me. Just had a revelation—you might be interested. Like it or not—and sometimes I really don't like it at all—we're family, you and I. Brothers. And best friends on top of that. That means we're stuck with each other for the long haul. And for what it's worth, buddy, you need to remember that even when we don't like our family, we never stop caring about them…and worrying—ever. So deal, okay?"_

House decides now that he'll get the sponge, clean up the mess himself. He hopes Wilson will take the gesture as an apology.

It takes twice the usual effort to stand. He's managed three steps when the cane tip lands in the spilled pudding and the cane slides away. His body's so weak that it makes no instinctive effort to protect itself, so he goes down harmlessly, a rag doll—even the thud is soft. But not soft enough—he hears a chair scrape across the floor in the kitchen. _Laugh at me; make some snide comment about my athletic inability, just don't—_

"House, are you all right? Don't move, I'm coming, stay put!" Wilson's already there, eyes worried, hands on House's shoulders, eyes assessing, hands on the right leg, eyes apologizing, ready to take responsibility for the fall—

"Leave me the hell alone!" He pushes Wilson's hands away roughly.

"Let me check you out. I should've cleaned this up; I'm sor--"

"Don't say it!" House interrupts angrily. "I was a jerk, okay? I deser-"

"But if I'd clea--"

"_Shut up!_ Just shut up and get the hell away from me!"

_That's it. _Wilson stands abruptly, walks to the couch and sits as he repeats to himself his resolve to be the _doctor_. He leans back, folds his arms behind his head, and watches House impassively. He watches as House reaches for his cane with a trembling hand, watches as he grabs the edge of the table with the other hand, watches as he levers himself to a shaky stand.

House makes it back, barely, to the couch. He grabs the remote and increases the volume to "blare." Wilson yanks the remote out of his hand, turns off the television, tosses the remote to the floor several feet away. He turns to House. "Talk time."


	2. Chapter 2: Talk Time

**A/N:**_ Before I go any further I must thank **Magdala**, **Brynaea**, and **Ataea** for so patiently allowing themselves to be tortured repeatedly with the first several chapters , and offering suggestions, criticism, humor, and endless support as I strived (strove?) to get this thing off the ground; I'm lucky they haven't killed me… yet. And reviewers—I read everything, and many times something in a review will suggest a scene or even alter a plotline; my thanks to you, as well. _mjf

CHAPTER TWO: Talk Time

House eyes Wilson cautiously. There's a new look in Wilson's eyes, and there's nothing soft, nothing concerned about it. _Yup, pissed him off good this time_, House thinks.

"Not talk time for me—Tivo time." House tries a charming smile.

"You wanna watch TV? There's the remote—get it." Wilson gestures to the remote lying on the floor an impossible distance away. He doesn't notice the tremble in his hand as he waves his arm, but House does, and a little of House's own frustration is replaced with concern.

"Oh, that's funny. _And_ cruel. Proud of you, Jimmy." House tries again; this time, the trademark sardonic grin. He figures that should elicit at least an eye roll, _some_ indication of forgiveness. This new adult-type Wilson is making him nervous.

Wilson isn't taking the bait. "If we'd hospitalized you for the pain management procedure, you'd still be there. Another two days. At _least_ two days, considering everything that happened. Right now, you'd be getting vitals every hour. You'd be getting IV hydration. You'd be pretty much confined to bed another 24 hours." Wilson rubs at his gritty eyes.

"So this is the way it's gonna be. You're gonna go to bed. I'll set you up on the couch, if that's what you want, but you're lying down. You're gonna eat something, and you'll let me know if you're nauseated. You'll put up with the vitals. You'll let me know if you need to get up, and you'll accept my help when you do. Or I'm calling an ambulance, informing them that—in my professional opinion—you pose a danger to yourself;" he looks pointedly at the mess on the floor. "And I'm having you admitted." He stops speaking and looks at House.

House doesn't answer right away, and Wilson can tell he's examining the statement for an escape hatch, a loophole. Finally, House speaks. "Couch." Just the one word, and he doesn't sound as angry as Wilson expected.

Wilson stands tiredly and goes to collect pillows and blankets. "Just play the game, House," he calls over his shoulder. "Forty-eight hours." When he returns, he says. "Now I'm going to get you something to eat. Again. And this time, don't turn it into a slalom course, okay?"

"Yeah… about the pudding."

"It's over. And I'd say you got your just desserts."

House groans, and Wilson smiles.

---

The next several hours pass without incident. House's vitals are stable, and he doesn't fight so hard against playing patient. _The only thing he's fighting is sleep, _Wilson thinks. He's seen House close his eyes a few times, watched as House jerked himself to alertness each time it happened.

House isn't eating well, and getting any fluids down him is a battle. But Wilson's far more concerned right now with the apparent aversion to sleep. He's learned over the years that the problems House presents never come one at a time, so he's learned to prioritize.

Wilson tries to approach the sleep problem from several different angles—and House has every one of them covered. When Wilson tries humorous, House's comeback is wittier. When Wilson generalizes the situation, House deflects into an 'insomniac patient' story. And when Wilson tries the direct approach, House simply feigns deafness. And mutism. Finally, Wilson decides to take the focus off of it, just be casual about it until House decides he'll talk. _After all, even House has to sleep eventually, right? Right?_

"Let me get you your pills, then you take a little nap. Any nausea?"

"No, and I don't need a nap." House takes the pills, swallows them with a minimum of water.

"Well, I'm just gonna sit here and read. The super-Vic's gonna be rougher on your stomach for a while; let me know, okay?"

Wilson settles in the chair with a journal, kicks off his shoes and puts his feet up. House watches as he massages his temples and rubs the back of his neck. "Why don't _you_ take the nap and I'll read the journal?" he says to Wilson.

"You wouldn't like it, House. Deals with therapeutic touch. Involves actually interacting with the patient. Now shut up and let me read."

When he sees that Wilson's involved in the article and isn't going anywhere anytime soon, House finally allows his eyes to close, and he sleeps without dreaming for the next two and a half hours.

---

The sound of the doorbell wakes him. Wilson lets Cuddy in, and House hears them discussing him in undertones before they enter the living room. "What, no coloring book and crayons?" he asks Cuddy.

"No, but I did bring your dinner," she says, showing him a bowl containing something definitely soft and probably tasteless. "And if you're a good boy, tomorrow I'll get you a comic book."

House watches Wilson smile tiredly, sees him pinch the bridge of his nose, and hears the quiet, weary sigh. "Cuddy, can you stay the night?" House asks, not taking his eyes off Wilson.

"Why, House, that's forward even for you!" Cuddy smiles, but her eyes have followed House's to the sight of Wilson, three days without proper rest. "I'd already planned on it," she says. She's concerned about Wilson too; at this point, he doesn't look much better than House, and she knows he won't rest at all tonight if she doesn't intervene.

"And I want you to call the hospital, order something for him, knock him out. They can send it over." House sounds like the doctor, not the patient.

"_No_!" Wilson's finally focused on the conversation. "House, are you worried about me? That's… uncharacteristic. _And_ unnecessary." He figures that if he openly accuses House of caring, House'll back down and leave him alone. "Cuddy, you've got to work tomorrow. And I've gotta be alert; meds are out of the question."

"I've gotten at least triple the sleep you have," Cuddy tells Wilson. "And for once I'm in agreement with House—_and_ one step ahead of him." She removes a prescription bottle from her purse and holds it up.

"Why is everybody threatening to shove pills down my throat lately? I'm fine; I don't want anything. Give it up." Wilson is feeling sorely aggrieved.

"When the patient is resistant to what's best for him, there _are_ other ways of administering it." House says this lightly to Cuddy, but he's almost glaring at Wilson. Wilson sees a brief flare of anger in House's eyes, knows he's remembering that first dose of Compazine. House had fought the injection, hadn't wanted the loss of control it would cost him. Wilson had ignored him; he'd had to. And House knew it. Wilson realizes that they're going to have to revisit that incident again. _Damn. _Suddenly, Wilson's just too tired to argue with both of them.

"Fine. I'll take it," Wilson says almost resentfully. He may not have the energy to argue, but he wants to make it clear that he's not happy.

"What've you got?" House asks Cuddy.

"Ativan." She figures the anti-anxiety component of the drug can only help; the stress Wilson's been under is contributing to his fatigue.

"That'll work," House says, still in doctor mode. "Two milligrams, at least; we'll go up to three if he needs it. Can you bring him some water?"

"Will do," she says, and shakes two of the tiny pills into Wilson's reluctantly outstretched hand, then goes to the kitchen. When she returns with the water, Wilson's got his head tipped back and his eyes closed. House is looking at him; Cuddy notes the worry in his eyes—which he immediately masks when he sees her watching.

"After he takes that, can you help me to the bedroom so he can lie down here? Apparently, there's some sort of rule that I can't walk unless there's a grownup holding my hand."

"Not a problem," she says, handing Wilson the water. He swallows the pills under House's keenly watchful eye.

"C'mon, I'll help you get settled. It's gonna take a few minutes to kick in anyway," he says to House.

It takes them a good fifteen minutes to get House set up in the bedroom, and when Wilson returns to the couch, he lies down gratefully and closes his eyes. He feels the fatigue and the first rush of sedation wash over him. _Damn, need to let Cuddy know about him not wanting to sleep—she needs…. _He's out before he can finish the thought.


	3. Chapter 3: Testing the Walls

CHAPTER THREE: Testing the Walls

Cuddy has been trying with little success to get House settled for the night. So for now, she's involved in organizing a corner of his room with the things Wilson may need for the next several days. She sets out the usual equipment, but decides to leave the IV fluids, injectables, and other equipment in the cardboard box—they won't be needed, she hopes, so there's no sense potentially upsetting House by allowing him to see them.

Once she gets everything set up, she turns back to House, who's apparently involved in destroying alien creatures of some sort on his GameBoy. He looks tense, and she can tell he's not really concentrating on the game. When he feels her gaze on him, he shuts off the toy and looks at her.

"Will you go check on Wilson? Make sure he's sleeping okay?" House asks her.

"Sure. I need to warm up your dinner anyway. Do you need anything else? I can bring you something to drink first, or—"

"Not thirsty, thanks anyway. Not hungry either. Or no. Maybe a little coffee, but it can wait. Could you just go check on him?"

"It's late for coffee. Decaf?"

"No point to decaf. Why bother to drink the stuff without the addictive chemicals? It's not _that_ good."

Cuddy knows from long experience that arguing with House is profitable _only_ if one enjoys exercises in futility. Since she doesn't, she ignores his refusal of nutrition and his insistence on a stimulant at this late hour and leaves the room. On her way to the kitchen, she sees that Wilson is sleeping soundly, just as she'd expect of an exhausted man who has a large dose of a strong sedative in his system. Just as House would expect if he could see past his own worry for his friend. But she knows he can't, so she returns to the door of his bedroom to reassure him.

"Sleeping like a baby; looks peaceful. He's fine, should be out a good ten hours, I'd imagine." This news gives House some measure of calm; she sees a bit of the unformed anxiety leave his eyes. "I'll be back in five." She doesn't bother to tell him that when she returns, she'll be carrying his supper tray, and that he _will_ eat.

---

When Cuddy returns in a few minutes with the tray of food, she isn't surprised to see House lying quietly, eyes closed. He needs all the sleep he can get, so she turns silently to leave and is startled when he says, "I told you I wasn't hungry."

"I thought you were sleeping."

"Not sleepy either."

Cuddy enters the room, mentally repeating "_pediatric patient_" to herself like a mantra. She realizes that she'll get nowhere very quickly with House if she treats him as she'd treat the normal adult patient. While House-as-recalcitrant-child can be amusing, she's aware also that it's not an unheard-of profile for adult sufferers of chronic pain. While many caregivers quickly become impatient, even annoyed, with an adult who's acting the way House is, Cuddy has studied the phenomenon, and so understands House's behavior.

House's reversion to both childish and childlike behavior is a manifestation of fear and anger. The necessary loss of control caused by his current condition is something he can't acknowledge or accept, so he attempts to wrest control back from the very people who can't allow that to happen. When he's acting child_like_, the charm and the humor are appealing. But the other side of that coin is the stubborn child_ish_ behavior he's exhibiting now. It can be sad to watch, difficult to deal with.

Cuddy's learned that the most effective way to handle House when he's in this frame of mind is to treat him as a precocious child who's in a sulk. "Are you nauseated? I'll bring you a Compazine, but you've got to eat. You know you won't regain your strength by refusing food, House. And you should be _touched_; I made this for you myself."

"Yeah, well, my food taster's on vacation, and since you're the chef, it'd be smarter to wait 'til he gets back. Thanks anyway."

"Nice. Look, just try it; I promise, if you turn blue and start gasping you won't have to eat anymore." She sets the tray across his lap and sits beside the bed. "I'm sitting right here until you tell me how you like it. And I really need to go check on Wilson; he seemed a little restless just now."

House looks immediately towards the living room. "I _knew_ we should've gone with the 3mg; go see if he's okay."

"You eat a few bites first; then I'll go check and come back with a full report." She knows that using Wilson is sneaky—but if it gets House to eat she's willing to take a page from House's own rule-breaking book—_the ends always justify the means_. She's certain the soundly sleeping Wilson would approve the tactic.

House rushes through three small bites of the homemade soup and sets down the spoon. "Delicious. Go."

Cuddy is ready to give him a hard time about his half-hearted attempt at eating when she realizes that House feels responsible for Wilson's state of exhaustion; he's feeling guilty and worried, and those are two of the many emotions with which he's uncomfortable. So she simply says, "Keep eating; I'm going," and stands to leave.

House hasn't picked up the spoon yet. When he becomes aware that Cuddy is still standing there watching him, looking a little sad, he retrieves the spoon and starts stirring the soup, finally taking a small mouthful. Cuddy sighs and exits the room.

---

When Cuddy returns to House's room, she sees that he's set the tray on the other side of the bed, and that both the soup and the cup of coffee he'd specifically requested appear scarcely touched. House is sitting completely upright in the bed, wearing an anxious look.

"Well?" he says.

"He's out of it again. Nothing to worry about. I'm more concerned that you're not eating or drinking." Cuddy eyes the tray.

"I'll work on it tomorrow. Just… tired."

Cuddy approaches the bed. "Okay, but I'm holding you to it. Tomorrow you start gaining some weight back. For right now, I'll get an assessment, set of vitals, too. Then I want you to get some sleep." She's busy gathering the necessary tools, but glances up and doesn't miss the odd look in House's eyes at mention of the word "_sleep_."

Cuddy takes the B/P twice and confirms her first set of numbers. _Hmm. _Everything else looks okay, though, and House is almost cooperative. Something seems to have changed for House over the last 72 hours, something good, maybe.

_He seems… _she searches for the word. _More open? A little more accepting? Could be just the normal vulnerability of serious illness; don't know if it's really an elemental change or not. Won't know until he starts to recover, but I'm gonna take advantage of it. Wilson said he thinks House may not be so resistant to our concern now; he may be right. House is clearly anxious about something. If he were anyone else I'd just hug him, hold him. But I don't want to push it, maybe undo whatever good's happening with him…._

Cuddy casually reaches over the bed, makes a show of rearranging the pillows at House's back. Then she sits at the bedside and puts her hand around his wrist as if to monitor his pulse, and idly asks him a question about Steve McQueen. She watches as the anxiety leaves his eyes when he gets into a funny story involving Wilson and the rat. While he's talking, she loosens her grip on his wrist but leaves her hand lying there.

House glances down once at her hand, but continues regaling her with his description of Steve's propensity for Wilson's neck. _House is actually relaxing_, Cuddy thinks. _But his voice is getting weak again; he needs to sleep. And that's enough touch therapy for now, anyway._ She removes her hand in a natural motion to smooth her hair back as she stands. "Get some rest; I'll be here bugging you again in another couple of hours." She smiles. "G'night, House."

House waits until she leaves the room to draw a shaky breath and set his mind to work on the fingering of a complicated piano piece; that should help him stay alert. He unconsciously moves his left hand over to cover his right wrist, where the warmth of another human being still lingers.

---

Cuddy's sitting at the kitchen table doing paperwork. She glances at her watch—almost midnight, time for House's meds and vitals. She rises, gets the pills and a glass of water. As she walks through the living room, she looks at Wilson, nested into the blankets and pillows on the couch. He's somehow managed to bury himself into the linens; all she sees is a shock of dark brown hair. She gently rearranges the blankets around his neck and shoulders; she's pleased to see that his face actually looks relaxed.

She opens the door to House's bedroom quietly. In the dim ribbon of light from the doorway the first thing she sees are eyes; alert blue eyes glowing at her in the dark.


	4. Chapter 4: Touched

**A/N:**_ My thanks to Brynaea for willingly taking time from her busy work day to read this multiple times, and to suggest, and nudge, but never push—'cuz I'm stubborn, and I had a vision in my head, and she knew it. _mjf

CHAPTER FOUR: Touched

"What are you doing awake?" Cuddy scolds House gently. "You said the reason you weren't eating was that you were sleepy."

"I said I was _tired_. There's a difference." House's voice is heavy with fatigue, but his eyes are bright—almost too much so.

Cuddy hands him the medication, grimaces when he takes the pills with only one small sip of water then sets the cup on the bedside table.

"House. You're not eating, not drinking, and now you're not sleeping. Are you in pain? Nauseated? Enjoying being waited on hand and foot? What is it? Talk to me." She notes that somehow, he looks even more gaunt, frailer than before.

"Been sleeping for two days. Boring. No challenge. Tired of it."

They both know that the sedated sleep he'd been in isn't the kind of sleep he needs now, and Cuddy doesn't see any profit in arguing the point with him. She starts the vital signs. Blood pressure's gone down a little more, nothing alarming, but it bears watching. When she's finished, she regards him silently for a long moment. He doesn't look away; she decides to take a chance.

"Lie back down and close your eyes."

"I told you, I'm not sleepy." His voice is irritated.

"I didn't say go to sleep. I said lie down and close your eyes; I'm trying to help you."

"Help me what? Are you trying to take advantage of me in my weakened condition? Can't you wait until I can enjoy it too?" He's smirking as he says it, but he's easing himself down into a recumbent position. _Not feeling so great; might not hurt to relax. Just a few minutes._

Cuddy smirks back at him. _Keep it light, no big deal. _"Yeah, I'll wait on that. More fun when both participants can… participate. " She looks at him, cocks her head, puts a finger up and taps the corner of her eye, then waits. _C'mon, House; don't fight it so hard, you'll come out of this with your 'bitter old cripple' reputation intact. I'd never tell a soul that you're human—they wouldn't believe me._

House sighs in exaggerated resignation, closes his eyes. Cuddy says, "We're gonna try something here. There's a new procedure, combines therapeutic touch with guided imagery and massage."

The eyes open again. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not a touchy-feely type of guy," he says dryly. _You're kidding, right? I'm missing thigh muscle, not brain cells—alternative medicine's not my thing; hell, it's not even medicine!_

"House, c'mon. I just read the article—"

"Yeah, you and Wilson both. Knew _he_ was into that laying-on-of- hands crap. Thought better of _you_, though." _No way am I about to let you—or anyone else—touch me if it isn't a strict medical necessity. And there's been way too much medical necessity lately as it is._

"Maybe I'm taking lessons from Wilson." Cuddy is determined to do this for House; she _will_ win this argument.

"And maybe you both need to cancel your subscriptions to that new-age medical journal you're reading."

"Look at this from an _investigative_ point of view, House. It's an experiment; you'll be able to prove me wrong, and then you can ride me about it for the next six months."

He considers that. "Could make it worth it. Dunno. What's in it for me?"

"No clinic hours for a week—_if_ we debunk the method. If it works, you just might feel better. It's win/win."

"So I let you _invade_ my personal space, and all I get out of it is a week off clinic?"

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "Okay, _two_ weeks. You're thinking of this the wrong way, House. Think of it as a medical procedure that might benefit you. Just a new medical procedure, very clinical, that's all." Her voice is brisk, matter-of-fact.

He looks unconvinced. "_Two_ weeks?" At her affirmative nod, he grudgingly closes his eyes and makes a conscious, but only partially successful, attempt to relax. _notagoodideanotagoodideanotagoodidea …but two weeks… two… icandothisicandothisicandothis … medical… clinical… investigate… experiment… two weeks… two weeks… two weeks_

Cuddy places her hands lightly at his temples; he flinches sharply, but she'd expected that, so she keeps her fingers stilled until she feels the pulses beneath them slow again. As her fingers make soothing circles, she begins to speak. Her voice is calming, almost hypnotic; "You're riding down a deserted country road on your motorcycle. It's a warm fall day, and the nip of cold in the breeze feels wonderful on your skin. Someone's burning leaves somewhere; you can smell the sharp scent of the smoke in the air. You're enjoying the foliage on the trees. There's warm gold, and brilliant red, and umber, and they're the most vivid colors you've ever seen…."

She continues to speak softly as she gently works her hands down his body, feeling the tension slowly, almost grudgingly, ease out of him. When she lowers the sheet away from his legs, his eyes open anxiously. "Cuddy…." he whispers, and it sounds tortured. Although he's wearing an old pair of scrubs, the material is thin; the twisted, angry scar, the awful, empty valley are clearly outlined.

Cuddy smiles gently down at him and whispers back, "Sorry, can't hear you over the roar of the bike." Then she watches, just watches him. She sees the conflict in the lines of his face; if she'd seen a refusal, she'd have stopped. But the conflict means part of him wants the contact, needs this tangible caring. She stays completely still, and waits; it reminds her of trying not to frighten a wounded wild animal in need of aid.

Finally, and purely on instinct, she communicates kindly, with her eyes, that she's not asking permission to touch his right leg; she's going to do it, and he's simply going to have to trust her. Her instinct is correct; he seems relieved that he doesn't have to make the decision, closes his eyes and relaxes again.

_You're good, Cuddy. I'd have had to say no; it's… expected. Not so sure I wanted to say no. _He takes a deep breath, tries not to think at all. He concentrates hard on the pictures Cuddy's words are drawing.

"You see an apple orchard, almost hidden from the road, and you steer the bike easily onto a small footpath. When you cut the engine, the world is silent; there's a sense of peace all around you. You take an apple from the tree, and just hold it in your palm for a moment, feeling the warmth of the sun it's absorbed. When you bite into it, it's crisp and sharp and fragrant. The juice in your mouth is the sweetest thing you've ever tasted…."

As she speaks, she's working the muscles of the wasted thigh with fingers now feather-light, now firm and warm. House continues to breathe deeply, evenly; the lines of his face have smoothed out. When she cues him with her hands to turn over, he does so without opening his eyes.

"You lie down under the tree, the scents of the earth and the fruit filling the air. The heat of the earth penetrates your skin and cradles you like a warm blanket. You watch the clouds float by slowly; the sky's such a deep blue that you feel beckoned by it; you're floating with the clouds and you're calm and free, and safe…."

Cuddy allows her voice to trail off as she finishes; she feels his leg move slightly under her hand. She decides to take another chance, and says softly, "The lighting's better in here. Let me get my paperwork."

When she returns, she angles the reading light on the other side of the bed so that it won't disturb House. She props herself on a pillow and 'accidentally' hooks her foot across his ankle, leaves it there. "You've still got the two weeks," she whispers.

After just a few seconds, she hears him sigh deeply, and the next breath he takes starts the regular rhythm of peaceful sleep. She doesn't move the rest of the night. Neither does House.


	5. Chapter 5: Lies and Truths

CHAPTER FIVE: Lies… and Truths

Wilson awakens and peers at his watch; 6:25am. House is due for his 6:00am med, and he hasn't heard any activity from the bedroom. He rises from the couch and stretches, pleased that he's actually feeling rested, and walks to the bedroom door. It's ajar, and he can see House sleeping peacefully on one side of the bed—and Cuddy lying on the other, nodding off over some papers. He grins and pushes the door open. Cuddy looks up at the movement, smiles and puts a finger to her lips. She carefully lifts her foot from where it's been resting across House's ankle, sets the papers down, and comes to the door. She motions to the kitchen, pulling the bedroom door almost closed behind her.

When they reach the kitchen, Wilson turns on the coffee pot and says, "Well, that was a cozy little scene. How'd you get him to sleep?"

Cuddy laughs. "Let's just say that you and I have been instructed to give up our 'new-age' medical journals."

"You _didn't_! That therapeutic touch method? _No_! I would've _paid_ to see that! How'd you get him to agree to it?" Wilson's laughing.

"Cost me two weeks of clinic hours and a _lot_ of fast talking. I used a bunch of words like 'medical procedure' and 'purely clinical' and 'investigative,' you know, stuff he understands." She's laughing too.

Then her face grows serious. "He's still not eating or drinking, and his B/P's dropping. He's getting dehydrated, and that super-Vic on an empty stomach…."

"Damn. I'll work on him today, try to talk some sense into him. Now that I've had some sleep I'm House-proof again; he doesn't like it when I yell." The worried look is already returning to Wilson's face. "Has he had his 6:00am meds yet?"

"No, figured you could be a little late with that; he needs the sleep more. And I got the last set of vitals at midnight—same reasoning. So you're gonna need to wake him up soon, I'm afraid." Cuddy smiles sympathetically. She drains her coffee cup and stands. "I've gotta get my stuff together, run home and get a shower; got a meeting at the hospital at 8:00am. Keep me posted."

---

Wilson is in the kitchen, trying to figure out what House might eat, when he hears Cuddy's name being bellowed from the bedroom. So he takes a deep breath, sends a pleading glance skyward, grabs the pills and the water, and goes in to face House.

House is sitting on the edge of the bed, and he isn't happy. He glowers at Wilson. "Did you sleep? Where's Cuddy? Where's my cane?"

"In that order; yes, very well thank you, she's got a meeting at the hospital, and it's right here," Wilson says, taking the cane from the closet. He hands House his cane and the pills. When House shakes his head at the water, Wilson grabs the cane back and replaces it with the cup in one quick move.

"Should've let you die of sleep deprivation. You're just _way_ too chipper this morning," House grumbles. He swallows the pills, drinks less than an ounce of water. "Why'd you hide my cane?"

"It's akin to hiding the car keys from an unpredictable teenager; just call it 'preventative medicine'." Wilson hands the cane back. "Need to get to the bathroom?"

"No. Just the couch, and I don't need my hand held."

The frown on House's face lets Wilson know it's gonna be a very long day, but right now Wilson's more concerned with the mental calculations he's just done. House hasn't peed since Wilson helped him get settled in the bedroom yesterday evening, almost 12 hours.

He follows House out to the living room, careful to stay far enough away that he doesn't appear to be hovering. House's gait is still unstable, but he doesn't seem to be in too much pain.

Once House is safely on the couch, Wilson returns to the bedroom to collect the things he needs for vitals. He looks thoughtfully at the contents of the box that Cuddy's hidden beside the dresser.

He returns to the living room, where House is idly thumbing through the journal Wilson had been reading yesterday. Wilson briefly considers bringing up the article on therapeutic touch, decides discretion is the better part of valor, discards the idea. "Okay, you know the drill," he says, wrapping the B/P cuff around House's arm. "How's the pain?"

"Still more than bearable. About like a year ago."

"Good. Any nausea?"

"Nope." The answer comes too quickly, and Wilson frowns. House's B/P has fallen a few more points since last night, and it's no longer low-normal. A B/P of 98/62 is, for House, just plain low. Wilson unwraps the cuff, continues the assessment. Breath and cardiac sounds are good. When he moves the stethoscope to House's abdomen, his frown deepens. He listens for quite a while before straightening up and fixing House with a very serious gaze.

"Sounds like you've got an organ recital going on in there. Bowel sounds hyperactive in the extreme. Let's try the question again, in layman's terms. Is your tummy upset, House?"

"And I will answer in layman's terms," House says. "No."

Wilson sighs. "Let's examine the evidence, oh great diagnostician. Not eating. Not drinking. Hyperactive bowel sounds. Switch, in the last 24 hours, to a med which has, as its number one side effect, nausea. Let's not leave out your own personal hatred of anti-emetics. Have I covered everything?"

House doesn't answer.

"C'mon, House. Let me get you a Compazine cap. Take it, wait 20 minutes. Eat some breakfast, have a nice cup of coffee. You'll feel like a new man." Wilson realizes that there's a begging quality to his voice, but at this point he doesn't much care. He's trying not to threaten House with the IV that's beginning to appear inevitable. House doesn't respond well to threats.

"Jimmy, your concern is, as always, touching. Also annoying. _And_ not appreciated. Bring me breakfast; I'll eat." House leans forward to grab the TV remote, finds himself gripping the edge of the table, hard, to keep from falling face down onto it. Wilson's right there, grabbing his shoulders and easing him back onto the couch. House brushes the hands away as soon as the room stops spinning. "It's nothing. Just a little dizzy. Normal after a few days in bed."

Wilson flops down onto the couch beside him. _Might as well have this conversation now_. "Also normal when your blood pressure's tanking." He grabs House's hand, pinches the skin up and watches it stay tented for too long. "And your skin turgor's crap. _And_ you haven't needed to pee in twelve hours. All of which points to dehydration."

House says nothing, just develops a serious interest in the TV screen. Except that the TV's off. Wilson continues. "It's probably nothing that couldn't be fixed if we get the nausea under control. Just take the med, House. One little capsule. Please."

When House turns to look at him, the resentment is clearly evident in his eyes. "And if I don't? Dr. Wilson's gonna threaten me with his trusty needle again? You get off on assault and battery?"

_Here we go. _"You _know_ that injection was necessary. You were in incredible pain; add intractable nausea to that, and you weren't thinking straight. I had to think _for_ you."

House is sneering now. "Yeah, thanks, _Stacy_."

"Aw, c'mon, House. You're overreacting. It's not the same thing."

"No, it was worse. This time I was conscious. This time I _said_ no."

Wilson takes a deep breath, gives himself some time to figure out what he's going to say. "I'm sorry for what Stacy did; we're all still paying for it, you most of all. And I'm sorry you feel… betrayed… by what I did. If I had it to do over again, I'd…." He can't make himself say it, won't lie to House about this.

"You'd do the same thing," House supplies quietly after a moment. "Because you're a good physician. A half-way decent friend." He says it grudgingly, but he forces himself to say it because Wilson needs to hear it.

Wilson sighs in acknowledgement. "I'd do the same thing. I had the means to stop your suffering; I couldn't just…." His voice trails off. He'd thought this conversation would make him feel better. He'd hurt House, but he'd helped him too. He tries to focus on the helping part.

"You knew I might not forgive you?" House is eyeing Wilson intently.

Wilson nods. "Yeah. It was a chance I had to take. You were… hurting." His tone had been firm, decisive—but his voice catches on the last word.

House remembers another time Wilson's voice had caught on a word, and he asks Wilson now, "You'd risk this '_stupid, screwed-up friendship_' just to save me?"

He's mocking Wilson's own words, but somehow his voice is gentle, so gentle. Because he remembers. That other word Wilson's voice had once broken on had been '_friendship_.'

Wilson looks at him, looks away quickly. "Yes," he says simply, because it's the truth.

But both men are uncomfortable with this much truth. So House rolls up the journal and hits Wilson with it smartly on the back of the head.

"Hey, didn't you say something about breakfast?" House asks.

Wilson smiles and heads to the kitchen. He thinks he's got a sure-fire plan to get some food into House.


	6. Chapter 6: Sorry

CHAPTER SIX: Sorry

House has eaten a little more than half of one macadamia nut pancake, and he's drunk maybe four ounces of coffee. He's also studiously ignored the Compazine capsule Wilson had placed on the tray. Wilson decides it's not enough, but it's a start, anyway.

And for twenty minutes, Wilson thinks that maybe he'd been wrong about the nausea; maybe House was telling the truth. He's happy to have been wrong. When House leans over the edge of the couch and brings it all back up again without warning, Wilson feels no satisfaction. As he cleans up the mess, he tries to figure out the best way to tell House that he's just bought himself an IV.

House is lying quietly on the couch, pale and sweaty and miserable. He's silently ordering his stomach to settle down, and he grows more miserable when he has to acknowledge that his stomach has plans of its own. When the retching starts, Wilson's in the bedroom. House doesn't know what he's up to in there, but he strongly suspects it has something to do with needles and tubing and bags of fluid. House tries to be quiet as the retching and gasping grow stronger, but there's no volume control on the involuntary sounds of an angry body, and Wilson's at his side in under a minute. He's got a syringe and a swab in his hand.

"House." Wilson's eyes are apologetic, conflicted.

"Just… do it," House gasps out, and winces and moans as Wilson quickly complies.

Wilson puts the empty syringe down and tries to help House ride out the waves of nausea while the med takes effect. As soon as the worst of it ends, Wilson realizes that somehow, in the tangled confusion of trying to get him through the spasms, House's arms have become tightly wrapped around Wilson's forearm. When he tries to untangle the arm, House's grip tightens almost imperceptibly. His eyes are still closed, breathing's still hitched. Wilson relaxes his arm and kneels on the floor by the couch, waiting for House to calm.

After a minute, House opens his eyes and releases Wilson's arm; he doesn't look at Wilson. "Guess my tummy _is_ upset," he whispers. His eyes are watering and red-rimmed, but he manages a sickly grin.

"Why did you lie?" Wilson asks softly.

House closes his eyes again. "Everybody lies. And patients more so. Without… exception."

That's not an answer. Wilson tries again. "Why did you lie?" When House doesn't respond, Wilson moves his face to within inches of House's, because suddenly, he knows. "Look at me." He waits until House's eyes reopen, and then he locks them with his own. "I wouldn't have decreased the dose on the super-Vic, House. That part of it's over. It's _over_. I believe you." He repeats it again, more slowly. "I believe your pain. I… believe… _you_."

House takes in a long, shuddering breath. "Okay." That's all he says, but it's enough.

Wilson stands up and looks down sternly at House. "You know what's gotta come next, right?" _I'm so sorry, House._

House almost smiles. "Yeah, the patient pays for his stupidity with another uncomfortable procedure." _Sorry, Jimmy; really sorry._

"Wanna stay on the couch? Or would you be more comfortable in bed?" Wilson's trying not to take away all his control; House, of course, sees through the question.

"I'd rather be out on my bike. Or even in the clinic. Barring that, doesn't really matter." _Can't make decisions right now. You do it. Might wanna pick the couch, though; don't wanna move, feel funny. But I'll do whatever you want if I just don't have to think about it. Want me to hang from the chandelier? You've got it. Just let me die in peace._

Wilson's afraid that House might not be strong enough to make it to the bedroom, but he wisely chooses not to voice this concern. "Okay, couch it is, then. I'll be right back." _Why, House? Why do you do this to yourself? Sometimes I think your common sense is inversely proportional to your intelligence. And sometimes, I think that you just don't give a damn._

When Wilson returns with the IV setup, he's pleased to see that House has allowed himself to drift off. He'll have to remember to thank Cuddy; House seems to be over his aversion to sleep.

"House, c'mon, let's get it done." House doesn't move, and Wilson suspects he's playing possum. "Gimme a break. I'll make it as painful as possible, help you atone for being an idiot." Still no response.

Wilson takes a closer look, grabs the blood pressure cuff as cold fear displaces all the air in his lungs. 90/58. _God_. Quickly, his fingers go to the carotid pulse in the neck. It's too rapid to count; weak and thready. Wilson bites back a curse, grabs the IV equipment, choosing the largest bore cannula he can find. He gets the line started rapidly, opens the clamp all the way, and hangs the bag as high as he can get it on the floorlamp. "Fifteen minutes. You've got fifteen minutes to come outta this, House, and then I'm calling an ambulance." He realizes that he's shouting, doesn't care.

After five minutes, he takes another carotid pulse. 112, still way too fast, but at least it's countable now, and stronger. A quarter of the 1000cc bag is in. Wilson wishes he had a pump; he'd like to run the fluids in more quickly. A repeat B/P shows a little improvement. Wilson stares at his watch, willing both time and the fluids to run faster.

When the second five minutes have passed, pulse has gone down to 92, B/P's up to 106/68. And over 500cc have run in. Wilson can live with that. "The rest is up to you, House. You've got five minutes. I know you'd hate that whole lights and sirens thing. Wake up and cuss me out for overreacting." He watches House intently.

With two minutes to spare, House responds to his name and a less-than-gentle shake of the shoulder. When he opens his eyes, he's clearly confused, but Wilson sees him try to take in the situation.

House grimaces when he sees the IV already running and feels Wilson's fingers at his neck. He looks at the arm wearing the B/P cuff; that wasn't on his arm just a second ago, was it? He focuses on Wilson and asks, "What happened?"

Wilson's getting another set of vitals and doesn't speak right away. Only when he's certain that the numbers are acceptable—and that he can trust his voice—does he answer. "Hypovolemic shock. Or damn close to it." Wilson's aware that his tone sounds terse, almost angry. _Fear can do that to you. Or maybe I am angry; completely avoidable medical emergencies will have that effect._

Wilson makes an effort to calm himself. He walks to the end of the couch, roughly pushes House's feet out of the way, and sits. He looks at House and says, conversationally, "Ya know why sick cats die in much higher percentages than sick dogs?"

House looks confused again by the apparent non sequitur. "Mmm… no. Why?"

"Because cats are _so_ good at hiding their symptoms that by the time anyone figures out there's something wrong, it's usually too late."

House ponders this. Then he looks down; he appears almost ashamed. "Well… about that… I'm, uh… uh—" He hesitates.

Wilson may be angry, but he's not going to be cruel. He's not going to make House say he's sorry; he's already been beaten up enough for one morning. "You're _uh_ moron," he finishes smoothly, and glances away so that House won't have to look grateful.


	7. Chapter 7: Outside Assistance

**A/N:**_ Thanks for all the phenomenal reviews on the last chapter, kids. I owe replies to several of you; I'm dealing with a bit of personal difficulty right now, but I promise that once I get it under control again, I'll get caught up. Just know I really appreciate all of you. _mjf

CHAPTER SEVEN: Outside Assistance

When Cuddy arrives at lunchtime with the IV pump Wilson's requested, the first thing she notices is Wilson's anger. He's making no attempt to hide it; his lips are drawn into a thin line, and his eyes are dark with silent fury.

"Here are your pills, House. And your lunch." Wilson virtually dumps a plate, a glass, and the medication on the coffee table and turns away. His movements are controlled, but it's easy to tell he'd like to punch something. Or someone. Cuddy follows him into the kitchen after a glance at House earns her nothing but a tight-lipped glare.

In the kitchen, Wilson is pacing, cleaning up the lunch preparations. He allows cutlery and a bowl to clatter loudly into the sink, then he turns to face Cuddy. "The more I think about what happened this morning, the angrier I get."

"I can tell. Of course, you have a right to be upset, but _try_ to get a handle on it. You're allowing his behavior to get to you; don't give him that satisfaction. If you do, you're letting him win."

"This isn't a _game_, Cuddy. And it shouldn't be a fight, either, at least not with opposing teams. We're all on the same side here; the only thing we should be fighting is a decline in his health. And he should be leading the battle, not sabotaging it at every step!"

Cuddy pours Wilson a cup of coffee and hands it to him. "You're right, of course. But until we can figure out _why_ he does what he does, I doubt we'll be able to change that."

Wilson sits down and drinks a few swallows of coffee. "I'm done trying to figure it out on my own. The rate he's going, he doesn't have that kind of time. I called Dr. Dickinson; he can see me this afternoon, 3:30."

Cuddy remembers that Dickinson is an old friend of Wilson's, and a respected psychologist. Wilson had first mentioned setting up an appointment with him after they'd started to fear, this past weekend, that House might be suicidal. Wilson had told her he was sure that, at the very least, House had a plan, and House himself had said a few things which appeared to confirm that suspicion.

"Are you free to keep the fuse doused on our loose cannon in there while I'm gone? Dickinson's in Pennsylvania; his office is just outside Lancaster, so I'll have to leave in an hour; takes close to two to get there, another two to get back, an hour for the appointment. Might be a while." He shakes his head and tries to appreciate the humor in having to leave the _state_ to find a psychologist who doesn't have a preconceived notion of House.

"Of course. I'll call my office, rearrange a couple of things. And then I'll get my whip and chair ready for action."

Wilson laughs at the imagery. "I'm afraid he'd _enjoy_ that," he says. "Since I'm currently not talking to him, I'm not gonna have to answer any questions. For right now, I don't want him to know what I'm doing, so when he asks, just tell him I've gone for an emergency consult on his, hmm… _discipline_ issues, with _Nanny 911_." When Cuddy laughs, he says, "Hey, it's only a _little_ lie. Hell, he'd make a good episode; a good _season_ of episodes."

Cuddy's glad to see that Wilson's sense of humor is returning.

---

Wilson is actually enjoying the drive to Dr. Dickinson's office. Traffic is inexplicably light, he's got his favorite music playing, and he finds the mindless task of maneuvering down the highway soothing.

When he pulls up in front of the professional building, his earlier anger has dissipated, and he feels ready to begin taming the tiger. _What is it about House that lends itself so well to wild animal imagery?_ He ponders this with genuine amusement.

As he walks into Dickinson's office and clasps hands with his old college roommate, he's wondering how best to explain the unique problem that is House. Wilson's afraid that if he just lays out all the facts, describes House's behavior, the first statement out of Dick's mouth will undoubtedly include the words 'straightjacket' and 'commitment.' _Maybe even 'padded room,' _he thinks wryly. "Hey, Dick, how've ya been?" _Dick Dickinson; had fun with that name in school. House'd have a field day with it!_

"I have a friend with some issues," he begins, and waits patiently while Dick laughs. "No, really, this is _not_ the hypothetical 'friend with a problem.' It's actually quite serious; could be life and death for him." The psychologist sobers up quickly, and Wilson starts the convoluted, confusing, contrary biography of Gregory House's last six years.

When Wilson has hit just _some_ of the high points and given an incomplete summary of the current problems, the 50 minute hour is almost up. Fortunately, Dick has no patient scheduled for the next hour, so Wilson takes a moment to call Cuddy and get the all-clear to stay.

According to her, House is well aware that he's blown it this time, and is, as a result, on his best behavior. And, of course, this morning's events haven't contributed anything towards recovery; Wilson suspects that between the enervating effects of the Compazine and the severity of the dehydration, House simply hasn't the energy to misbehave.

---

The subject of all this concern is curious. House has asked Cuddy several times where Wilson is; he has yet to receive a straight answer. Finally, Cuddy turns to him and says, not unkindly, "Look, he's angry, okay? He needs some time; he'll get over it."

House looks serious, and sad, and disgusted. Cuddy's seen him this way before. _I remember when House confronted me after Vogler made Wilson resign; he reacted the same way then. Took me a while to realize that House was upset with himself, his own behavior. _This time, Cuddy doesn't mistake House's reaction for displeasure with Wilson.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, House. In spite of what you'd _like_ to believe, you're as human as the rest of us. Yeah, you screwed up. The consequences could've been… devastating. But they weren't. You set your recovery back a few days. You managed to piss off Wilson. And maybe, you learned something."

House has heard enough; it bothers him that Cuddy knows he's angry with himself. Time to direct the focus elsewhere. "Could you heplock this thing for me?" he says, indicating the IV. "I gotta go to the bathroom, don't feel like dragging the pump. Don't know why Wilson couldn't do that when he put it in," he grumbles.

"I think he was just a little too busy at the time to give it much thought," Cuddy reminds him, dryly, as she inserts the small plastic port which allows the fluids to be attached and disconnected easily. "There you go." She hands him his cane, and refrains from asking him if he needs any help.

House stands slowly. He's felt dizzy all day, and while he _might_ mention it to Wilson later, he's just not in the mood to deal with Cuddy in mother-hen mode. _On the other hand, no sense telling Wilson tonight. It'll just give him more ammunition. Gave him plenty of that already._ _Sure it's just the Compazine anyway. And I musta pulled something in the left thigh when I got sick this morning. _He finds that by controlling the speed of his gait, he's able to walk a reasonably straight line, and Cuddy doesn't seem to notice anything amiss.

When House returns from the bathroom, Cuddy's waiting to reconnect the IV, and notes that there's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. He's also breathing a little too rapidly for such a short trip. _She's looking at me with doctor eyes. Next thing, she's gonna want a pulse. Not a good plan right now. _

So House grabs the TV remote and turns on _The L Word_. He smiles innocently at Cuddy and pats the couch cushion next to him. He's relieved when Cuddy suddenly decides it's time to go straighten up the kitchen.


	8. Chapter 8: Realization

**A/N: **_Sorry for no update yesterday, kids. Also, my heartfelt thanx to Bax, who—when able to stay focused—(I hear Ritalin helps with that!), has some simply amazing insights into the mind of James Wilson, M.D._

CHAPTER EIGHT: Realization

Dick hasn't said much, just asked a few questions that sounded reasonably perceptive to Wilson. Now Wilson stops talking and waits for Dickinson's take on the situation.

"Would he be willing to come in and see me?" When Wilson explodes into a laugh, Dickinson says dryly, "I'll take _that_ as a 'hell, no!'" Wilson, still laughing at the notion of House voluntarily entering a shrink's office, nods in confirmation.

Wilson smirks. "I'll spare you the eminent Dr. Gregory's House's opinion of psychology as a profession, but it's right up there with his opinion of snake-oil salesmen!"

Dickinson doesn't look too surprised. "Then this is what I'd suggest. Based on what you've told me, no one else is gonna be able to help him," Dickinson holds up his hand as Wilson, shocked, prepares to interrupt. "No one else will be able to help him because he won't allow it. It isn't a myth; there _are_ a few people out there who can't be helped by conventional therapy. But that doesn't mean that they—that _he_—can't be helped at all. Dr. House is luckier than most; he's got someone willing to take the time, do the work. That would be you." Dickinson smiles at Wilson in admiration.

"And the unusual thing about this situation, James, is that you are uniquely qualified. Even when someone in Dr. House's predicament is fortunate enough to have a friend or family member willing to participate fully, the background and education usually aren't enough. In your case, that clearly isn't a problem. And you have the added benefit of being able to see to his physical issues as well."

"But Dick, that's part of the problem—a huge part! I told you what happened this morning; he could've died, simply because he couldn't bring himself to trust me. So now I'm gonna be his surrogate shrink? That oughtta tear it for sure." Strong doubt is apparent in Wilson's voice.

"James, you know better than that. It isn't _you_ he doesn't trust; it's himself. You pointed out to me that he's still stuck in the denial stage of grief over the infarction. Add in his natural tendency towards depression—which I suspect was present even _before_ the infarct—and you've got a man who _can't_ allow himself to admit that he needs help. Because once he acknowledges it to himself, he's also gotta admit to his limitations. And he may never be ready to do that. As a matter of fact, from the way you've described him to me, it may be healthier for him in the long run not to _ever_ acknowledge those limitations. "

Wilson is beginning to understand fully for the first time, and he feels a rush of compassion for House. He also feels a lifting of some of his own guilt; House _can't_ accept help; nothing that Wilson's already tried to do could have been done any better—the results would have been the same. Wilson understands now that House's behavior is not controlled by House; it's an unconscious denial of his own circumstances.

"And don't forget what we all learned in Psych 101," the psychologist continues. "Tragedy tends to bring out both the best and the worst characteristics in people. When the tragedy becomes chronic, those characteristics are magnified over time. So if he's always been loathe to rely on others, now it becomes an overriding force in his life, in his attitude towards both his illness and towards the people who want to help him. He's literally _programmed_ to fight you."

The newfound feeling of compassion towards House threatens, momentarily, to overwhelm Wilson. "So he's not responsible for his behavior?" he asks.

"Afraid not." Dickinson's mouth twists in a rueful, sympathetic smile. "No more responsible than your average preschooler who's heard the word 'no' two too many times."

_So Cuddy's spot-on in her assessment of House's personality. And that 'Nanny 911' thing isn't too far from the truth. Viewing that big jerk as a child will make it easier to be patient, though, not to just give in and kill him. Wait'll I tell Cuddy she's had the right idea all along; she enjoys being right almost as much as House does!_

"Is there anyone else he's close to? Someone who can share this... burden... with you? It's gonna get pretty rough... "

Wilson knows the answer, but he gives the question long thought before replying. "Lisa Cuddy, our boss, Dean of Med at PPTH. She's with him right now. They have a... complex... relationship. But I think it's been changing, in a positive way, over the last few days. I think he's starting to trust her, at least as much as he can trust anyone. His parents, but they're distant. Both geographically _and_ emotionally." He silently curses House's father, John, for his part in House's inbred perfectionism and the attendant depression. "Stacy, of course. He still loves her, but he also blames her for everything that's happened in the last six years. And she's distant, too." Wilson admits, sadly, that the only people House can really count on are himself and Cuddy.

"So, you're not doing this single-handedly. Dr. Cuddy will support you?"

Wilson doesn't hesitate. "She will--every step of the way."

"Since there's just the two of you, and since I think the bulk of the burden will fall on you, despite Dr. Cuddy's support, I'd like to suggest that you get yourself a punching bag." At Wilson's small laugh, Dickinson says, "I'm not joking, James. You don't understand how rough this is gonna get, having to watch—having to _allow—_an adult to essentially react to his life like a peeved four-year-old would. You'll need an outlet; I mean it."

"I can handle this, Dick. It's... a relief to know that he's not just the selfish bastard the rest of the world sees. I know that the man I've described to you sounds... sad, and sick, not someone anyone would want to know, but there's so much more to him. He's brilliant, and funny, and... I dunno, it's just an _honor_ to be allowed into his world. Can't explain it; you'd have to meet him, and look past the walls he puts up. Maybe then you'd understand why he's really worth it. When he allowed me to put him through the pain control procedure, even after what's gone on, it was... it made me feel _good_, like I was somehow worthy of his friendship."

"That's another thing we need to talk about, James—the loss of that extra pain. It's going to be part of the problem, believe it or not. You've said that he's integrated this pain into his personality, his behavior. That means that a big part of his perception of himself disappeared when the pain left. And whenever your self-view changes, there's a period of grieving attached, even if the event itself is a positive one. He's going to find it disconcerting, at the least, and deeply disturbing at the worst, to have such a big part of his identity gone. And that'll result in more anger, more lashing out, while he tries to come to terms with this shift in self-perception. It shouldn't last more than a month, but it could be a very nasty month."

Wilson hadn't considered that getting rid of the breakthrough pain cycles could have any sort of a negative impact at all. "How can I help him through that?"

"I think you're already doing that for him by instinct. Just be there for him. _Let_ him lash out at you; that'll be his way of working through his own confusion. The 'attacks' on you aren't really attacks; I think what he's doing is analyzing the changes in his life in a way that has, historically, made him feel safest. He sees you as a secure sounding board, and that's what he needs most right now."

Wilson takes a deep, deep breath. "Dick, I've been here almost two hours now. You haven't called out the little white-coated men with the nets yet—for House _or_ for me. So I'm thinking maybe I should mention one more… mmm… concern."

Dickinson waits patiently; just like House, he knows that the biggest concern tends to manifest itself at the end of the appointment.

_Okay, sorry House, gotta do this, buddy—not gonna lose you now. _"I think that House may have a suicide plan." Wilson looks directly at Dick, and the psychologist sees the fear, and the desperate plea for reassurance, in his eyes.

"That doesn't surprise me in the least," Dickinson says, and sees the surprise on Wilson's face. "In my experience, at least half of all chronic pain sufferers have a plan. And that plan is, often, what actually _prevents_ them from becoming acutely suicidal. Just knowing that he has his 'out' gives him the comfort he needs to get through the rough spots. He's really at _less_ risk of suicide than someone who's less organized, more impulsive."

Wilson finally allows himself a relieved sigh that starts somewhere deep inside his soul. "I was so worried…."

"Understandable. And I'm not saying don't watch for signs; I'm just saying that, at this point, it's likely that he's no more at risk for suicide than you are. More of a problem, I think, is keeping tabs on his physical condition; sounds like that's putting his life far more at risk . You're the physician here, but I'd suggest simply explaining to him that you know it's hard for him to speak up when something's bothering him. Tell him that you're going to be monitoring him closely for your _own_ peace of mind. Take the pressure off him—that often has an interesting result; he may become more willing to be truthful with you."

"That _would_ be interesting." Wilson smiles. "I think I've taken up more than enough of your time, Dick. And I'm anxious to get back, find out if House and Cuddy have killed each other yet. Let me ask you something; you still play a mean game of poker?"

Dickinson grins. "Oh, yeah. Can still make you wish you'd left your wallet at home. Why?"

"Well, how's this? We give House a few weeks to recover, let me slip your name into a few conversations with him. And then, you're invited to a poker game you'll never forget." Wilson grins too, wonders what nickname House'll christen Dick with.

"Sounds good, James; looking forward to meeting Dr. House. And it was great to see you again." He hands Wilson his card. "I've written my home number on there; call me anytime. Questions, problems, or if you just need to vent, okay?"

"Will do; thanks again." Wilson is headed towards the door when Dickinson calls out to him.

"James, one more question--what are _you_ getting out of this?"

"Well, I hope that House'll be able to ac--"

"No, that's not what I asked. I know what benefits we're hoping _he'll_ get. What I want to know is, what's in this for _you_?"

Wilson blinks as realization dawns. "This time, I don't lose my brother," he says quietly. And he thinks, _This time, the demons don't win._


	9. Chapter 9: Trouble With the Truth

CHAPTER NINE: Trouble With the Truth

Wilson's got a lot to think about on his way back home. He wishes that he'd thought to ask Dick for a copy of the voice recording from their session—he doesn't want to be passing on such vital information to Cuddy second-hand, but he's excited about what he's learned, and he's relieved as well, and Cuddy deserves some of that same peace of mind. He decides to call first thing in the morning and have Dick's office email the voice file.

"Now all I have to do is find a way to tell House what I've done," he says aloud. "Should've asked Dick for some suggestions. I'd like to just put this off until House is stronger, but I don't dare keep this from him. All I've got working for me right now is his trust; if I lose that again, it'll be gone for good…."

He hits the hands-free on his cellphone and calls the apartment. Cuddy answers on the second ring.

"You two both alive and in pretty much the same condition as when I left?" Wilson asks her.

Cuddy laughs. "Yeah; he's still pretty subdued. Earned himself a gold star on his behavior chart. Not a member of the Clean Plate Club yet, though," she says, looking pointedly at House, who's listening intently to her side of the conversation. "How'd it go for you?"

House sees Cuddy's face grow serious; then she turns her back to him and lowers her voice. "He said that?" "Yeah… no, have them send the entire file… make certain they encrypt it… patient confidentiality… no, you know I'll help in every way I can… try not to worry… it'll be okay, we'll get it worked out somehow… you're not alone in this…." Cuddy turns back around, resumes speaking in a normal tone. "Drive safely; we'll see you in a little while."

After Cuddy disconnects the call, House asks, "So, what did daddy have to say? Gonna be home in time to tuck me in?"

Cuddy looks distracted. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, sorry…. He should be home in about an hour," she answers. Her mind is clearly elsewhere.

"Cuddy?" House says. "Everything okay?"

She forces herself to focus on House. "Fine… just fine. New patient, that's all."

"What's up?"

"Don't worry about it, House. I'll let Wilson tell you about it if he wants to. Up to him."

This isn't a satisfactory answer, and House is ready to resume questioning Cuddy when she turns away from him abruptly. "I'm gonna go get the stuff for vitals; be right back," she says, and leaves the room.

---

When Wilson returns, the first thing Cuddy notices is he's exhausted. She's just given House a half-dose of Compazine, and he's drifted off, so she motions Wilson into the kitchen.

"You look done in," she says to Wilson. "Have you eaten?"

"Yeah, grabbed a sandwich at a drive-through. Just worn out from the trip, and not happy about having to tell House what I've done, that's all. He needs to know as soon as possible; don't wanna stir up all those trust issues again. Just wish he were doing better, physically."

"Me too. And that's gonna bring up another problem. He's not going to be ready to go back to work in five days, is he?"

Wilson sighs. "I'm afraid not." He thinks a moment. "Give 'im a bad case of the 'flu…. Hell, give _me_ the 'flu. Chicken pox. Plague. I don't care. Just find a way to keep the kids away from this apartment."

"I can do that. Good thinking. Are you gonna tell him tonight? He already suspects something's up."

"I don't see how I can avoid it. You know how he is when he thinks he doesn't have all the facts; he'll just worry it until the fool who's withholding information spills his guts. And he's _exceptionally_ skillful at getting information out of _this_ particular fool." Wilson smiles dolefully.

"Don't envy you. What are you gonna say?"

"Don't know yet; still working on that. If I'm lucky, he'll stay asleep until I come up with a plan…. Any chance of him staying asleep for the rest of my natural life?" He looks at Cuddy hopefully.

She smiles at him. "That would be a '_no_,' I'm afraid. I gave him only a half-dose of the Compazine; he specifically requested to be awakened upon your arrival."

As if on cue, a voice calls from the living room. "Cuddy? Who are you talking to? Wilson home?"

Cuddy and Wilson roll their eyes at each other and head to the living room. "Goodnight, gentlemen," Cuddy says. "I'm outta here." She blatantly ignores Wilson's '_you coward' _look

House waits while she gathers her things and goes out the door. Then he turns to Wilson. "Where the hell were you?"

"Yeah, I missed you too, House," Wilson answers dryly. "How ya feeling? I heard you were a _very_ good boy today, and frankly, that worries me." He approaches House and grabs a wrist, tightens his grip when House tries to yank it back.

"I'm fine. Just dandy, in fact. Now it's your turn. You answer _my_ question." He tries again to pull his wrist back and glowers at Wilson when he fails.

"You are _not_ fine." While he's got the wrist, Wilson pinches up the skin on the back of the hand and glowers back at House when the skin stays tented. "I'm reattaching the IV. How'd you talk Cuddy into disconnecting you? And when do you plan to start taking your fluids the classic way?"

House scowls at him. "Apparently, you didn't hear me the first time. I make it a rule not to repeat myself, but in your case, I'll make an exception. Got your listening ears on? Where were you this afternoon?"

As Wilson secures the line to the heplock, he keeps his expression carefully neutral. He sits on the couch next to House and regards his friend thoughtfully.

"House, got a question for you. This is really important, so don't just blow it off."

_Something's wrong, big wrong_, House thinks. _Wilson__ looks... scared. And there go the hands again_. House notices that Wilson's hands have that fine tremble he's seen several times in the past few days. And he's pale, and he won't meet House's eyes. A frisson of cold fear moves inexplicably through House's body.

"You have my attention," House says, with uncharacteristic seriousness.

Wilson finally looks at House. "I'm gonna ask you something, and I want you to _think_ about your answer. Take all the time you need, but make sure of what you're gonna say."

House nods wordlessly, never removing his eyes from Wilson's. House sees fear there, and trepidation, and maybe even a plea? For what?

Wilson pulls in a breath. "What would you do if I were... sick? Very sick, and maybe... well, just... I need to know. How far would you go?"

That frisson of fear has just engulfed House's body. _Jimmy. No. He was gone almost seven hours. Long enough to have all kinds of tests, the big tests, the serious kind. Cuddy said a new patient, said __Wilson__ would tell me about it if he wants to. I'm an idiot. No! Jimmy… no. Great diagnostician I am, didn't even notice that my best friend-- _

Wilson interrupts his racing thoughts. "I'm gonna go make some coffee, House. Think about what I've asked. _Really_ think about it, 'k? It's… important." He walks into the kitchen, leaving House and his racing thoughts alone.


	10. Chapter 10: Confusion

**A/N:** _This chapter has been completely rewritten; I feel that this was where I started to get off track. Chapters eleven through fourteen are going to be back later today, with minor variations, and tomorrow there will be a new chapter, and we'll be back to normal. I apologize profusely; you've all been so loyal—don't wanna let you down, so knew I needed to fix things a bit. Thanks, kids! _mjf

CHAPTER TEN: Confusion

When Wilson enters the living room with his coffee, House is staring thoughtfully at him, and continues to stare as Wilson takes a seat. Finally, Wilson becomes uneasy, pinned under his unwavering gaze, and breaks the uncomfortable silence. "Something wrong? Why do I feel like I'm on a microscope slide?"

"What've you got?" House's gaze has become appraising in nature; he seems fascinated with Wilson's hands, curled around the coffee mug.

"Huh? A cup of coffee. Want some?" Wilson is pleased that House is interested in drinking something. He starts to get up. _At this point I'd almost offer him a beer if I thought it meant getting fluids into him. _

"Sit. I said, what've you _got_? You were gone seven hours. That's a lot of tests."

Wilson is confused, and is about to explain the length of his absence when House suddenly pales and gasps. Wilson sees a hand go to his left thigh. "What is it?"

House's left thigh is pulling, clenching up. _Uh-uh. Not about me now, it's about him. _House wills this new pain into submission. "Nothing. Just a little stiff." _Now, even now, lookin' at me with those worried eyes, and Wilson never comes first; gonna come first this time, Jimmy. _"Don't wanna talk about me. Answer the question."

"House, I don't _have_ anything, I went on a little trip, sorry I was gone so long, but--"

"Don't lie to me. Your hands, the tremors, I can see 'em now, and you're pale, and--"

"Congratulations! You've just diagnosed 'fatigue.' I'm not sick, House. Stressed out, yeah. Worried; that too. _And_ tired. But _sick_? No."

"But you _said_, you asked me, if you were sick, very sick--" Not_ cancer; that'd be too cruel, he knows too much._

"It was a hypothetical, House. Trying for some empathy; foreign concept, I know, but try to stay with me on this." Wilson's concerned now; House is pale, and his breathing's too rapid.

"Look, stop trying to protect me, okay? Brain's still working. Whatever it is, we'll get through it, gonna be there for you all the way, whatever it takes, this is—" House's eyes are bright, intense, and he's talking a mile a minute.

"Will you just calm down and let me talk a minute? I am _not sick_. I was using that as an example. Trying to get you to understand why I… went to… see a friend today." _Wilson, you're a coward; he thinks you're sick, just tell him…._

House still looks confused, and he's still studying Wilson, trying to decide if Wilson's telling him the truth, or trying to protect him. "You went to see a friend. Okay. And the hypothetical?"

"I've been… concerned. For a while. About your… state of mind. And this weekend, after your hallucination, the talk of suicide…."

Now House is getting angry. "You and Cuddy were talking suicide! Not me."

Wilson shakes his head, decides he'd better just get it over with. "I went to see my old college roommate. He's a psychologist, House."

Anger and relief are battling in House's mind. _I really don't care who Wilson went to see, because Jimmy is all right! A psychologist? He still thinks this is all in my head? He's the one who's crazy._ "I thought you believed me," he says coldly to Wilson.

"I _do_. It's… not about that. I…. House, there've been issues since the infarct. After what's happened, your pain getting out of control, my part in letting that happen, well… just wanted some objectivity, and… more for _me_, really."

"Yeah, and I'm sure all you discussed was _you._ My name never came up," House sneers.

Wilson is up and pacing. "Yes, your name _came up_. But this is about how _I_ deal with this. Didn't do you any favors the last few months. Told you I wasn't gonna let that happen again. This is part of making sure it doesn't."

House thinks about this, decides that maybe it's okay if Wilson talked to somebody about _Wilson_; he can live with that, especially if it means Wilson'll get off his back a little, about… well, _everything._ And now that the anger's receding, the relief is coming back, and he has to admit that Wilson had him a little nervous there, for a second, about being sick. House closes his eyes. "Do me a favor?" he asks.

Wilson closes his own eyes for a moment and tries to gather some patience, dispel some worry. "Depends," he says gently, and allows some humor to creep into his voice. "Not gonna go TP Cuddy's house; outta the question. Other than that, maybe."

House manages a small smile. "No; fun as that would be, this is _way_ more important. Don't ever get sick, okay? Not allowed. New rule; just made it up myself. And all _you_ gotta do is follow the rules."

Wilson can tell that House is on the verge of sleep again; he tells himself that it's the meds, the weakness. But he knows that's not right. Wilson watches him a moment, worried about something he can't even put a name to. _Not getting better, not even trying to get better. Not acting like himself, not fighting. Aw, House, what's up with you? _

He decides that, first thing in the morning, he'll draw some blood for a Chem21; maybe there's an electrolyte imbalance, something easy to fix. That would explain so much.

If his potassium's down, House's apathy, the mild confusion, the apparent leg cramps can all be explained. And corrected. _But House had to know; he isn't keeping anything down, he knows the logical result of that. Dick's wrong; hiding the vomiting, knowing what the risks are—doesn't sound like he wants to live, sounds like he's just quit caring. He really didn't even react appropriately to the whole shrink thing. _

Wilson knows that Cuddy's waiting to hear how the conversation about Wilson's visit had gone. And maybe talking with Cuddy will help him put some of this concern into perspective. House is really asleep now; it's a good time to call her. One more look at House, and he goes to make the call.


	11. Chapter 11: Puzzle

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Puzzle

Cuddy answers the phone before the first ring even finishes. "Wilson? Or House? If it's you, House, don't confess to _anything_—line could be tapped. Or is it the police, calling to report a particularly violent murder at 221B?"

Wilson laughs. "Clever. Very funny. But he took it quite well; _too_ well, in fact."

"You're kidding. What'd he say?"

"He seemed to think that _I _was seriously ill; went on about how we were gonna handle it. Guess it's my fault. I asked him how far he'd be willing to go _if_ I were very sick, and apparently he assumed I was. Sick, that is. When I explained that I was just trying to get him to empathize, understand why I'd felt the need to get an outside opinion, he made a token attempt at being angry; didn't last long. Told me I wasn't _allowed_ to get sick. Ever. Whole thing was… weird."

"So he's okay with it. Hmm… sorry; not really seeing a problem here."

"Cuddy, we're talking about _House_. The guy who thinks emotions should be outlawed and psychologists should be shot."

"Yeah, I get that. But I _also_ get that he's ill right now, and adjusting to new meds, and that even _House_ is gonna have a reaction once in a while that falls within the realm of 'normal,' so my suggestion would be to just accept it as a gift. And don't look a gifthorse in the mouth."

"Wish I _could_ just… accept it. But this reaction seems to be symptomatic of his whole attitude towards his current situation. He just doesn't seem to be fighting all this hard enough. Almost like he doesn't care. I'd actually be _relieved_ if he'd give me a hard time about something, anything! _Apathetic_ isn't a word one would normally associate with House, and maybe I'm wrong, but that's how I'd describe his behavior."

"Maybe he just doesn't feel well enough yet to actively work at making our lives miserable. Also, you said yourself that he might come out of this more accepting of our concern, right?"

"But he _isn_'_t_ more accepting; that's my point, Cuddy! He's… well, it just doesn't _matter_ to him, one way or the other. And as far as feeling well enough, that's another concern. Could you come by on your way in tomorrow? I'm gonna draw some blood in the morning; I'd like you to pick it up and run a Chem21. Should've done that this morning after his near-miss with hypovolemia, anyway. But we need to get a look at his 'lytes. If they're really out of whack—which _is_ a good possibility—that'd go a long way towards explaining his behavior."

"I can do that. Have you decided yet how much you're gonna tell him about your consult with Dickinson?"

"I figured I'd let _him_ tell _me _how much he wants to know. And once you listen to the session, we can figure out the parts he _has _to know."

"Sounds good. What's he up to now?"

"Went right to sleep after our talk. Gotta wake him in an hour or so for all the midnight stuff. Hard to believe he's only been home one night. Maybe you're right; maybe he just needs some more time. I hope that's all it is. It's just… something doesn't feel right, can't put my finger on it."

"Wilson, you pointed out yourself that, under normal circumstances, he'd still be hospitalized. I think we were _all_ hoping that he'd bounce right back from the breakthrough pain procedure, and everything would get back to whatever it is that passes for normal around here. Guess we forgot that we're dealing with House, the man who wrote Murphy's Law."

Wilson laughs softly. "You're right. We've been back less than 36 hours; only _feels_ like a week. And _you _took off outta here so fast tonight that I didn't get report—sure not gonna ask him, not what you'd call a reliable historian right now. So how'd things go in my absence?"

"Biggest thing, I guess, would be that he still has no appetite. He talked me into disconnecting the fluids by very logically pointing out that he couldn't be expected to be thirsty when he was receiving 150cc an hour. Made sense at the time, should've known better; if he got three ounces down on his own I'd be surprised. Ate a couple bites of dinner, but he didn't argue the Compazine much. Just asked that I halve the dose so it wouldn't knock him out before you got home."

"How mobile has he been? Any problems with the leg?"

"Aside from the bathroom a couple of times, not mobile at all. To tell you the truth, I think he's… scared. His gait isn't all that steady, and he seemed to be consciously controlling the length of his stride. He denied pain, denied vertigo." Cuddy sighs. "You know, you may be right, maybe something is just a little bit off with him."

"Thanks, Cuddy," Wilson says facetiously. "I'd just finished convincing myself that you were right, nothing's really wrong, that I was hoping for too much improvement, too soon—and now I'm back to my original concerns."

"Hey, you know House better than anyone else. When you say something's off with him, I'd be a fool not to listen. The good news is, his vitals _are_ within normal limits. Does that make you feel any better?"

"Right now, I'll take whatever I can get. And after this morning's adventure, it's nice to know that the vitals bounced back. By the way, Dick recommended that I tell House that I know it's difficult for him to keep me informed about his health. I'm supposed to take that pressure off him, just tell him that I'll be monitoring him more closely, for my own peace of mind. Dick seems to think that if House doesn't feel he _has_ to tell me something's wrong, he might eventually become more truthful about it. Just hope I'm alive long enough to see _that_ happen…." Wilson's voice trails off as he considers the odds of House _ever_ being truly open about his health. Just then, he hears a crash in the living room. "Gotta go," he says quickly to Cuddy.

When Wilson arrives in the living room, he sees House on the floor, just beside the couch. As he goes to him, Wilson can't decide if House looks angry, frightened, in pain—or all three.


	12. Chapter 12: It's the Left

CHAPTER TWELVE: It's the Left

Wilson rights the fallen IV stand and kneels by House, tries to keep his voice neutral. No worry, no anger. "Let's get you up; then you can tell me what happened."

House doesn't speak right away; he seems to be focused on something. Finally, "Not yet. Must've pulled something in the left thigh this morning. Still crampin'."

It's then that Wilson notices that House has his right hand wrapped around his left upper thigh, and that the fingers are squeezing the muscle so tightly that they're white. "Okay, take your time." When the pump starts beeping Wilson checks the IV site and sees that the cannula must have become dislodged in the fall. _Of course. Why not?_ "House, we're gonna have to restart the IV; it's out." He slides the cannula out the rest of the way, grabs a bandage from the supplies on the side table, and covers the site.

"Wait 'til morning?" House's tone is wheedling.

Wilson takes in breath to start the standard lecture; '_no, you're not drinking, if you'd just do what you're supposed to do, then….' _But he hears Dick's voice telling him that House _has_ to fight this, so instead he says, "Sorry, no. Gotta stay in until you feel well enough to take fluids on your own." _No accusations, no pressure—and no bargaining. Just do what I think is best for my patient._

House sighs. But he doesn't argue. "Okay, I think I can move now. Might need a little help gettin' up."

Wilson makes no comment on the rare request for assistance, just hands the cane to House and places his hands firmly under both elbows. House uses his left leg to push to a stand; whatever the problem was, it seems to be gone now. Once he's standing, Wilson removes his hands, but as soon as the support is gone, House wobbles forward. Wilson grabs his shoulders and notes that he's supporting most of House's weight.

"Sorry… little dizzy." After just a minute, House is able to straighten up, support himself again.

"Listen, I was getting ready to wake you anyway. Time for your meds, and time to move into the bedroom. I'll restart the IV there; can you make it?"

"Think so. Just don't go too far." House shoots a look at him, makes sure Wilson's within hovering distance, then he moves slowly forward. Cuddy's right—he's consciously controlling his gait, something Wilson's never seen him do.

When they reach the bedroom, House sits carefully on the edge of the bed. "Be nice to get a shower." He says this almost wistfully, in the tone of a request that he knows will be turned down.

Wilson feels a flash of sympathy—he'd hate this too, this dependence, the weakness. "Still got that shower chair? If I can find that, sure, shower's a good idea." _No it's not; it's one of the lousiest ideas I've ever heard. But, much as he acts like a child, he isn't—and I can't take away all his control._

House is surprised that Wilson's agreed to the shower. "Yeah, chair's still folded up in the back of the linen closet, I think. Unless your maid moved it; _still_ can't find my bowling ball!"

Wilson laughs. "House, that thing's been missing for, like, _three years_; why are you blaming it on Lady?"

House is pouting. ""Cuz she found everything else I've ever lost; was counting on her to find that, too."

Wilson shakes his head, smiling, and goes to get the shower chair set up. When he's finished, he returns to the bedroom. House is still sitting on the edge of the bed, absently rubbing his left thigh gently.

"Still hurt? What do you think is the matter?" He sits next to House and reaches over to check the thigh. House slaps his hand away.

"Told you. Felt something pull this morning while I was recycling breakfast. It's fine. Even a cripple can just pull a muscle or strain a tendon, ya know—doesn't have to mean anything. All it needs is a hot shower."

"Okay, c'mon then, let's give it what it needs." Wilson allows House to stand on his own; he makes it to the bathroom, but pauses with a hand on the doorjamb to rest. Wilson goes past him into the room and sets underwear and a robe on the toilet seat. "Just put this on when you get out; I'm gonna check that left thigh." He doesn't give House a chance to respond, just busies himself turning on the water and adjusting the temperature. "Need help getting in?"

"No, and I don't need help scrubbing my back, either." House says this irritably, and it makes Wilson happy because the gripe sounds almost normal.

"Okay, I'll leave you to it, then." Wilson exits the bathroom, pulling the door almost closed but not latching it, then leans against the wall just outside the door, listening for sounds of trouble.

---

House sits on the shower chair, allowing the hot water to beat down on the left leg, appreciating the instant relief it brings. As he starts scrubbing his body, he tries to figure out what he might have done to the thigh. He blames it on the violent retching. Then, he blames it on the stiffness of too much time in bed. Lastly, he considers that it might be an electrolyte imbalance. And then, he pushes away the certain knowledge that none of these perfectly plausible explanations are the reason for this newest problem.

Wilson hears the water stop, and yells into the bathroom, "Don't stand up if you're dizzy, House."

"Not dizzy. Standing. Out of shower. Fine." House yells back, and is relieved to realize that it's all the truth; for right now, aside from the damned generalized weakness, he feels pretty good. As he limps out of the bathroom, he thinks that maybe the left thigh thing was just a fluke.

Wilson is waiting when he gets back to the bedroom. "Here are your pills; let's get the rest of this done, it's late." He watches approvingly as House swallows the pills with at least three ounces of water. "How was the shower? Feel better?"

"Yeah, thanks." House sits on the bed and reluctantly moves the robe away from his left leg so Wilson can check the thigh. As Wilson probes the muscle gently, he notes that it feels tighter than it should, but he can't find anything obviously wrong.

"I'm thinking that an electrolyte imbalance would explain both the pain and the dizziness, so I'm gonna draw some blood in the morning. Cuddy'll come by and pick it up." Wilson slips the robe off of House's shoulders for the rest of the assessment, and doesn't miss it when House moves the cloth over to cover the wasted right thigh. The self-conscious gesture makes Wilson feel inexplicably sad.

"House, look, I can count every one of your ribs. You have to have lost another six or eight pounds these past few days, and those are pounds you couldn't afford to lose. Once we get the IV restarted, I'm gonna give you the other half-dose of Compazine, and we're gonna do that for a couple of days. Until your stomach adjusts to the super-Vic, and you're able to eat and drink, and keep it down." House says nothing, and Wilson continues the assessment. When he finishes, he tosses House a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt and goes to the living room to get the IV pump.

When Wilson returns, House is dressed and lying on the bed. Wilson sits in the chair. "Feeling okay? You look… thoughtful."

House turns his head towards Wilson, then immediately looks away. "What you did today; I'm not happy, but I _do_ understand. Just thought you should know that. And what I said tonight, when I thought you were sick, I meant it. You should know _that_, too."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "House, I _already_ knew that. Some things, you just _know_; that's one of 'em," he says dismissively. "Besides, breaking the rules is _your_ job; I've been given strict instructions not to ever get sick. _One_ of us has to follow the rules around here, ya know." He stands and begins collecting the IV supplies.

House takes a deep breath and sighs; it's a relieved sound. When Wilson returns to the bedside with the equipment, he doesn't look at House's face, just starts examining his arms, trying to find a vein that's not already bruised and sore. Once he's found a good site, he keeps his head down and gets to work on the IV. He starts speaking casually. "Shrink told me today it's not your responsibility to give me a running tally of your symptoms. Says if I'm gonna worry so much, I gotta ask the questions, do the poking and prodding. Said _my_ peace of mind isn't your problem. Okay, quick stick here, you ready?" He glances up briefly; at House's nod he inserts the needle. "Anyway, what all that means," he continues, as he tapes the cannula in place and inserts the heplock, "is I'm just gonna have to hone my assessment skills. Hey, I know!" Wilson looks up and grins at House. "I'll just pretend I'm a veterinarian—_their_ patients won't tell 'em what's wrong, either. It'll be fun!" He's pleased when House widens his eyes and shakes his head like Wilson's the difficult one.

Wilson injects the Compazine directly into the heplock, and reattaches the line and sets the pump. Then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, he grabs one of the journals scattered around the bedroom and sits down in the chair by the bed. "Be here until you fall asleep, if you need me," he mumbles to the pages of the magazine.


	13. Chapter 13: Tests

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Tests

It's been an uneventful night, and when Wilson awakens at 6:00am, he actually feels rested. He'd sat by House's bed until almost 1:30; House's sleep had initially been restless, with some unintelligible mumbling, which stopped when Wilson spoke softly, keeping up a steady stream of words for a couple of minutes. It seemed to soothe House, and after that he'd fallen into a deeper, more restful sleep.

Wilson suddenly realizes that he _should've_ been awakened at 4:00 by the IV pump signaling an empty bag, and he hurries into House's room. House is asleep, and the IV's been disconnected, and the bag is, indeed, empty. Mildly annoyed, he quietly hangs the new bag and, wanting to let House sleep as long as possible, carefully reconnects the line. House stirs and groans at the touch of gentle fingers on his arm, but doesn't wake. Wilson takes the opportunity to simply observe for a minute.

He notes that, while House isn't in acute pain, he doesn't look peaceful, either. He's moving both legs, apparently trying to find a more comfortable position, and Wilson sees him rub the left thigh. And, once he quits moving the legs, both hands go, fisted, to his abdomen. There's a small frown between his eyes, and he licks his dry lips a couple of times. _Still nauseated, still something going on with that left leg. Might as well do the Compazine now; at least that's one argument I can short-circuit._

Wilson pushes the drug slowly. He's considering changing to a stronger anti-emetic, perhaps one usually utilized for the nausea caused by chemotherapy. But he's concerned that House's loss of appetite is more than just a result of the nausea; if that's the case, even a change of medication might not help. _I guess it's time to talk with him about the loss of the breakthrough pain; might also be time for some stern words about his general condition. He's heading towards hospitalization—he needs to know that. Don't wanna scare him, but we're running out of options…._

As Wilson finishes up and disconnects the syringe from the port, House opens his eyes, sees the syringe, and looks a question at Wilson.

"Just the Compazine, half-dose like we discussed last night. House, why'd you disconnect the fluids? Why didn't you just call me? We've already got two doctors on this case; we don't need a third, ya know."

"_We_ didn't discuss it last night; _you_ did. If _I'd_ been consulted, I mighta told you the Compazine's not working so hot. All it does is make me dizzy, knock me out. Wasn't asked."

Wilson swallows the logical response; '_And you couldn't have maybe volunteered the information?' _"Sorry, House, you're right. I should've asked you if it was helping. I think we're gonna change it today." _Dick's right; this is not gonna be easy. _"Why'd you disconnect the fluids?" He repeats the question that House has, apparently, chosen to ignore. "Is it because you're drinking so much that they're redundant? Or 'cuz your blood pressure's so stable? Or was it just next on your list of Ways To Annoy Wilson?" _Damn, what is wrong with me? Taking out my frustrations on him isn't gonna help anything! And why does he look hurt? How'd I blow it now? _Wilson sighs, and waits for House to answer.

When House speaks, his voice is quiet, devoid of emotion. "You told me last night that I'd diagnosed 'fatigue'. Boring diagnosis, easy antidote. Sleep. _Uninterrupted_ sleep. It was two hours; just two hours. Wasn't gonna kill me. Thought it might make a difference for you. Sorry I interfered in my own care."

_Battin' a thousand this morning, aren't ya, Boy Wonder? _ "No, you're absolutely right, House. It _did_ help me, and a couple of hours won't make a bit of difference." _I hope_. "Guess I just felt guilty I didn't hear the pump myself, that's all. Took it out on you, sorry."

"Couldn't have heard it; caught it on the first beep. Would've hung the new bag, just didn't feel like getting up." _Couldn't get up; damned left thigh was what woke me in the first place; add dizzy on top of that, well… just wouldnt've been a smart move._

_How'd you hear it that quickly? Not sleeping again? _"We'd better get that blood drawn. Cuddy said she'd try to be here to pick it up by 7:00. That way, if we need to add 'lytes to the IV, she can bring back whatever we need; won't have to wait to get 'em going." Wilson grabs the blood draw equipment and several tubes; he's decided to run a full battery of tests, try to figure out what might be going on.

House is eyeing the tubes suspiciously. "You gonna leave any blood for me? Trying for physician-induced anemia?" _Talk to me, Wilson. What are you worried about? Could you treat me like I might remember a little of my medical training? Starting to feel like your lab rat._

"As long as I'm drawing blood, figured we might as well run a CBC. Liver profile and enzymes wouldn't be a bad idea either." _Okay, level with him. I wanted him to empathize last night; now I need to put myself in his place. I'd sure as hell want to know what was going on. _"I'm sure you've noticed you're not bouncing back the way you should. We need to figure out why that's happening, and try to get it corrected before we wind up having to admit you." _Slid that in pretty cleverly. Now, just sit back and wait for the fireworks._

"Why? Just 'cuz I can't eat, lost a few pounds? A little nausea, some dizziness? Big deal! Not a thing they can do for me there that can't be done here." He's glaring at Wilson now, but Wilson sees more than anger; he sees fear of the loss of privacy, the thing Wilson and Cuddy have worked so hard to protect throughout this ordeal. "Or am I too much work for you? Can't handle it anymore, wanna dump me on the staff, make things easier on yourself?"

"Of course not! How could you think that?" Wilson begins, but realizes even as he's speaking that House is correct; as long as Wilson and Cuddy are willing to care for him at home, there's no valid reason for hospitalization. But he knows also that House is right about the other thing; he admits to himself that he's frightened for his friend, and sharing the responsibility for his care with other professionals might alleviate some of that fear.

The doorbell rings then. Wilson breaks the mutual glare and goes to let Cuddy in. "Haven't got the blood yet. Come help me fix my latest boo-boo," he says to her quietly. "I mentioned the possibility of admitting him, and he's freaking."

They walk into the bedroom, and Cuddy can't miss House's look of anger and hurt. But she understands Wilson's concern as well; House _looks_ like he belongs in the hospital; the only patients she's ever seen in a home setting who've looked worse were those who were dying. _But they didn't have two physicians caring for them around the clock, access to everything they needed. This is a different situation. House is a different situation. And he's not dying. We can do this; we have to._

Wilson picks up the syringe and tourniquet and sits on the edge of the bed. He takes House's right arm in his hands, but doesn't yet start looking for a vein. He just holds on, trying with his touch to telegraph comfort, and an apology. He meets House's eyes, and won't let himself look away. "I'm sorry. You're right, again. There's no reason for hospitalization under these circumstances; I wasn't thinking logically. Not a thing we can't do for you here, and of course it's much better for you to be at home. And, to be honest, I wouldn't trust you not to terrorize the poor nurses—you're not sick enough to behave yourself." He tries a small smile, and feels House's arm relax a little, sees a little of the tension leave his eyes.

"I've got the time off," Wilson glances for confirmation at Cuddy, who nods quickly. "So we'll just take as long as we need to do this right. Whatever it takes." He breaks eye contact with House and starts the search for a vein.

"It's okay, House," Cuddy says. "I don't want you unnecessarily taking up one of my beds, and half your team's time, when you don't really need to be there. God knows, you both have plenty of vacation time built up; might as well get some of it off the books. Besides, I don't want to get stuck taking care of that rat again!"

House looks keenly at both their faces. He's trying to decide if he's being patronized, or pitied. But, he has to admit to himself, both his friends appear sincere. "Okay, then." He looks at Wilson. "Seems like I'm stuck with you. Sure your cancer kids can do without you?"

Wilson recognizes all the layers of meaning behind this deceptively simple question, and recognizes, as well, the importance of his answer. "I'm where I want to be," he answers firmly. "I take care of you. All the rest will take care of itself."


	14. Chapter 14: Planning

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Planning

Wilson's drawn the blood, given House his medication, and completed the assessment. The combination of the Compazine and all the activity proves too much for House; as much as he'd like to stay awake to take part in what he's sure is going to be an interesting discussion, his eyes close of their own accord. Perhaps he could have fought it, but he knows there's another factor in play here; for the first time in a long time, he's got a sense of security. He feels, much as he'd like to deny it, _cared for_, and, he grudgingly admits to himself, it doesn't suck. So he gives in to sleep, and gives in to handing worry, and fear, and even medical decisions, over to the two people who care.

Cuddy and Wilson quietly leave the bedroom. Cuddy sits in the living room while Wilson gets them coffee, and when he returns they look at each other with a mixture of relief and sadness.

"Thanks for your help in there," Wilson says to Cuddy. "I almost blew it, didn't I?"

Cuddy doesn't answer the question directly; instead, she asks two of her own. "How much have you told him about yesterday? Have you put any of what you learned into practice yet?"

"He doesn't seem curious about the session. The only thing I've told him is the part about letting me be responsible for the medical stuff. And that's having some interesting results, good ones, I think." He tells her about last night's incident with restarting the IV, how he'd simply _told_ House how things had to be, how House had accepted it.

"Doesn't really surprise me," Cuddy says thoughtfully. "Goes back to that whole 'peds patient' thing. Kids, even sick kids, crave discipline. That sense of someone being in control helps 'em feel safe. And House… well, the man lives his _life_ out of control. Doesn't matter how old you are, or how smart, that's gotta be scary. I'll bet he actually feels relieved that it's not all on him anymore."

"It never was; doesn't he _know_ that?" Wilson's sad that, apparently, House has spent so many years rejecting concern that, at some point, he'd stopped being able to recognize it, and had wound up feeling alone in his battle. And Wilson feels partly, maybe even largely, to blame for that.

"He knows it now; that's what counts," Cuddy assures him. "We can't go back and undo the last few years; we can only move forward from today, make certain it never happens again." She's silent for a minute, and when she speaks again, she chooses her words carefully. "You realize that we're making a pretty big commitment here? We're… all he has. That means no backing out, no taking a break, no walking away from it, from _him, _when it gets too tough. Think we can do it?"

Wilson knows that now Cuddy is seeking reassurance, and he feels uniquely qualified to give it. He has, after all, been fighting for over six years to be able to make this commitment to House and his health; he knows many of the pitfalls and responsibilities already. And he knows the fear that comes with agreeing to be House's friend; that fear that maybe you're knowingly setting yourself up to have to deal with the pain of loss before you're ready. For Wilson, that's the hardest part, and it's something he has to face every time House is ill. So he knows what he has to say to Cuddy.

"We can do it. Yeah, it's a big emotional investment, and there are times when you're gonna want to cut your losses, just pull out. I know; been there. But," and here he smiles, shakes his head, "believe it or not, he's got this uncanny way of knowing when he's gone too far. Then, he lets you see a side of him that reminds you why it's all worth it, makes you _want_ to go on fighting for him." Wilson's thinking of the most memorable time it had happened.

He had admitted a homeless woman to the hospital, and—unbeknownst to House—it had brought up painful, emotional memories of Wilson's own missing brother. House had been his usual nosy, insensitive self, even going so far as to pull Wilson's personnel file, trying to find out why Wilson had taken such an interest in the patient. Wilson had felt angry, even betrayed by House. And then, Wilson's memories had driven him to visit the last place he'd seen his brother.

He'd been sitting there, feeling more alone than he'd ever felt, and remembering how he'd failed his brother. Out of nowhere, House had shown up. He'd admitted to following Wilson, and while Wilson had pretended disgust at his presence, he'd actually been surprised, and glad to see him. So he'd told House about his missing brother. And then, for the next hour, they'd sat there, together, in total silence, while Wilson mourned his brother. Wilson had been comforted by House's quiet presence, and deeply touched as well—the night was cold and damp, and he knew that House would pay a high physical price later, just to be there for Wilson. He also knew that House would never say a word about what it had cost him.

Wilson doesn't share this memory of House with Cuddy; he's never shared it with anyone, never even spoken with House about that night. But Cuddy, watching his face, his eyes, can tell that this friendship is more reciprocal than she'd ever thought.

"Don't worry about me," she tells him now. "I can take anything he throws at us. Yeah, he's exasperating, and confusing, and miserable, and he can even be downright cruel. And I'd be lying if I didn't say there are times I wish I'd never met the man. But you're right. Somehow, he's worth all of it."

"So, how are we gonna convince _him_ of that?" Wilson asks. "I'm starting to get a handle on the psych stuff, and it's gonna help. It's the medical aspects that are worrying me now. I'm hoping the blood work will tell us something, and I'm gonna try switching his anti-emetic to Zofran. It's possible the Compazine is causing some muscle rigidity; apparently he's having trouble with his _left_ thigh now. And, of course, he's made it quite clear that he doesn't appreciate the sedative effect. Zofran might still make him a little tired, but it's a lot less likely. We'll have to start monitoring his temp, but overall, the side effects should be less severe."

"I'll bring that at lunchtime," Cuddy says. "Both the injectable and the oral. Let's hope it works; he seems to have lost more weight every time I see him."

"That's another thing. I need your opinion on this. I'm thinking we'll give him another 48 hours to take food and fluids at sustainable levels. At the end of that time, if he's still not showing any progress, what do you think about a PICC line? That way, we could give him total parenteral nutrition, give his digestive system a chance to adjust to the higher doses of narcotics. And if he's on TPN, that'll take the stressor of forcing himself to eat away from him."

Cuddy frowns. "Pretty drastic, but I'm afraid I've gotta agree with you. When I'm at Hospice, I'll go ahead and schedule the mobile radiology service, in case we've gotta go with the PICC. That'll prevent having to put him through the trip to the hospital for the placement x-ray. Hate to think of doing this to him, but you're right. Can't let him continue like this; he'll start having complications based on malnutrition. We've _got_ to prevent that. Have you talked with him about this?"

"No, and I don't plan to. He doesn't need to know. If I thought his refusal of nutrition was just a control issue, then using it as a threat might have some value. But I'm thinking now that this has been an ongoing problem, since the breakthroughs started. He's clearly been losing the weight for quite some time, another thing I wasn't paying attention to." Wilson's expressive eyes are full of hurt; Cuddy can tell it's not for himself, but for his friend.

"To be honest," Wilson continues, "I'm thinking we're not gonna be able to avoid the PICC, even if he manages to increase his intake. Telling him about it ahead of time would only make him anxious, and maybe more likely to try to hide his symptoms. We made a lot of headway this morning. We got him to acknowledge, and we acknowledged ourselves, that this isn't some minor thing he's gonna get over in a few days. I think that, to some degree, we've all been pretending, up 'til now, that all he needed was a few days' rest. He's seriously ill; we've gotta treat him accordingly."

Cuddy nods. "I agree with you. And you know I'll do everything I can. Let's get it clear right now that you _will_ trust me to do my best by him, and that you _will not_ be on duty 24/7. Don't make me have to do that whole lecture again, okay? Your continued health is vital to _his_ health. You've gotta take some occasional time away from it all. Not long; just enough to relax, sustain your own sanity. Understood?"

Wilson knows she's right, knows that, without her cooperation and participation, he wouldn't be able to do this for House. "Yes, ma'am, I hear you, loud and clear. And thanks. For everything."

Cuddy sets her cup on the table and stands. "Okay. I'm gonna get the blood to the hospital. And I'll listen to that voice file as soon as it arrives. Then, we'll work up a treatment plan. And fortunately, neither of you is expected back for six more days, so we have plenty of time to figure out how to safeguard his privacy through all this, for however long it takes. So try not to worry. We _will_ figure it all out, whatever it takes."

"I know. Whatever it takes," Wilson echoes, and as he closes the door behind Cuddy and turns to go check on House, he allows himself to feel the fear he's been trying to ignore, and to realize that at least he's not alone with it anymore.


	15. Chapter 15: Trouble

**A/N: **_I posted a new chapter 10 yesterday, and reposted 11 through 14 with some, mostly minor, revisions. The only actual plot difference is that Cuddy has decided to set up a visit by the mobile radiology van in case House winds up needing a PICC line. There is also more clarification in 11 thru 14 now of the medical terms and procedures. If you haven't read the new chapter 10, or the revisions to 11 thru 14, I'd suggest it, but it's not absolutely necessary. Thanks to all for your patience and support; I think we're back in business now! _mjf

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Trouble

When Wilson enters the bedroom, House is just waking up. "Wilson? What're you doing here? Cuddy send you? I must be late for work again, huh? _Really_ late, if she sent you in person."

"That's real funny, House. I'd almost think that you're starting to miss the place already."

"Whaddaya mean? Sorry she sent you all the way over here; next time, call first, save the trip. Now that you're here, though, mind giving me a ride in?"

Wilson plays along; House's creating an elaborate joke is the best sign of recovery he's seen yet. "Sure, ride in is almost a necessity; IV lines and motorcycles probably wouldn't mix real well. But hey, it'll probably get you out of clinic duty; might make the patients a little nervous if the doc looks sicker than they do!"

House sits up, looks at the IV line in his arm, and Wilson sees the puzzlement in his expression. But it only lasts for a second; the confusion is replaced by appreciative amusement as his hand goes to the IV site. "Thought we were even, in the practical joke department, when you _killed_ my cane! Guess I was wrong; this is _good_." And before Wilson even realizes what's happening, House has roughly yanked out the IV, and is looking, thunderstruck, at the blood escaping from the ragged wound. "What? You really put it in? That's _not_ funny."

Some part of Wilson's brain is telling him that this never was a joke; House is disoriented and badly in need of assistance, but Wilson's body is frozen as he stares in horror at the unfolding scene.

House tries, ineffectively, to staunch the flow of blood with a hand that's shaking. "What the _hell_?" he says, and looks up at Wilson with such a naked plea in his eyes that Wilson's feet automatically start propelling him to House's side. Medical training tells him he can't allow his panic to show, and his own instinct enables him to keep his voice and expression calm.

"You're sick, buddy; the IV's for real. It's all right; you just woke up, you're a little confused, that's all." As he's speaking, he tears open a package of sterile gauze, takes House's arm slowly, gently, and places the gauze firmly over the wound, applying pressure with his hand.

House looks as if he might try to bolt from the bed; his confusion is rapidly increasing to full-fledged panic, so Wilson unobtrusively wraps his hand around the other arm and tightens his grip gradually. "Listen, okay? I'll explain it. Do you remember what happened Friday afternoon? It's all right if you don't, just trying to figure out where you got lost." He's seen House in all stages of illness, but Wilson has never seen him look this unabashedly frightened.

"I… I… it was something with my leg. You helped me. And Cuddy did, too." House looks to Wilson for confirmation, and Wilson nods encouragingly. "You gave me morphine." Wilson can tell that it's starting to come back to House now, but he maintains his grip as House continues. "But we came home; you're staying with me now. If we're home, why..." House looks around the bed at the equipment, "…all this?"

"You came out of it weaker than we'd thought you would. You've… had a little setback. You're not taking nutrition yet, and we think your electrolytes might be messed up. I drew blood this morning, for the 'lytes. Remember that?" _He may be back with the program, but he looks bad, really bad. We need those lab results; we need a treatment plan. Now._

House looks at the bandage on his right arm that Wilson had placed there after this morning's draw. "Yeah… and then I fell asleep. You and Cuddy were gonna try to figure out what to do next. You told me it was gonna be awhile before I could go back to work." House's voice is more confident now, his expression less lost. "And you and Cuddy said… you both said… you'd be with me as long as it takes." There's a quick flash of gratitude in House's eyes as he remembers the end of this morning's conversation, and the not-so-bad feeling he'd had of being cared for.

Wilson feels safe releasing House's arms now. He tapes the pressure bandage over the IV site while he affirms House's recollections. "Yup, that's right. We've gotta get the IV restarted, but I'm gonna get you some orange juice first, and I need you to drink it, even if it doesn't stay down very long. I think your potassium's low; that's why you were confused. You be okay while I get the juice?" Wilson needs to call Cuddy; he'd much prefer to do it out of House's hearing. And if he can get some orange juice into him, for even a few minutes, it can only help with the strongly suspected potassium deficit. But if House doesn't want him to leave the room, it's more important that he stays; it's that simple. He knows that House will _say_ it's fine, so he watches House's eyes.

"Not a problem; patient's oriented again," House says dryly, and his eyes show only rueful humor.

"Back in a minute, then."

As soon as Wilson reaches the kitchen, he places the call to Cuddy. She's only just arrived at the hospital, but when Wilson describes House's episode of disorientation she says, "I'll run the labs now, myself, and get right back to you. How's he doing now?"

"Well, he's calm. Looks about like you'd expect after something like that, a little shaken, I guess. I need to get the IV restarted and do a full assessment; I'll know more then. Gonna go try and get some orange juice into him right now; probably won't stay down, but at least it'll give _me_ the illusion that I'm doing something medically productive for him. And then, I'll just try to keep things on an even keel until I hear from you."

"Hang in there," Cuddy says. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

Wilson hangs up the phone and pours the juice. As he heads back into House's room, he finds himself wishing that he hadn't promised not to hospitalize him. But he's made the commitment, and he's going to do everything in his power to keep it. _Whatever it takes…._


	16. Chapter 16: Dissembling

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Dissembling

"I'd like you to get down as much of this as you can, but slowly," Wilson tells House as he hands him the orange juice. House takes the glass and swallows a tentative sip.

"So what did you and Cuddy decide?" he asks.

"Not much. Gonna switch the anti-emetic to Zofran. Anything else'll be dependent on the results of the bloodwork. You have any kind of an appetite this morning?"

"What'll happen if I say no?" House isn't hungry at all, but he's starting to worry that, at some point soon, Wilson's going to want to get drastic about the whole nutrition thing.

"Nothing. Actually, if you're still nauseated, I'd just as soon prefer you _don't_ try to eat, not right now. Once we get the Zofran on board, you'll get your appetite back." Wilson's trying to sound optimistic.

House, relieved that they're not going to have a replay of all the other food discussions, responds, "Yeah, you're right." He drinks some more juice, and grimaces slightly; his stomach's already complaining. He sets the glass on the bedside table, shakes his head very slightly.

Wilson looks at the full glass, then at House. He decides not to push the issue; it won't be too much longer until they hear from Cuddy. "Let's go ahead and get that IV restarted. You still doing okay?"

"Yeah; not planning on pulling it out again, if that's what you're asking."

That's exactly what Wilson is asking. He wishes that House had been able to get some of the juice down, but the IV can't stay out any longer. He gathers the necessary supplies and sits on the edge of the bed. "You got anything left?" he asks, surveying the bruised and needle-marked arms. "This looks like a train wreck."

"I think the antecubitals are gone; got some left here," House says, indicating his inner forearms.

Wilson locates a likely candidate. As he ties the tourniquet and swabs the vein, House asks him, "How long you thinking this'll take?"

Wilson knows House isn't asking about the restart. "I don't know. Where we are now is the result of months of neglect." He sees House go into defensive mode. "Not your fault," he interjects quickly. "Miscommunication all around, and denial here," he says, taking his part of the blame. "It's gonna take a while to undo; you know that. I know it's hard. But I'm glad you decided to go through with the procedure. If you hadn't, we still wouldn't know, and it would've been a lot worse by the time we caught it." _If we caught it._

"Here we go," Wilson says as he slides the cannula in. He sees the flashback of blood in the chamber, and slowly withdraws the needle. And the vein collapses. He looks up at House.

"Everyone misses once in a while. Try again," House tells him.

Wilson ties the tourniquet more tightly, moves up an inch, and manages to get the cannula successfully inserted. As he's attaching the fluids to the heplock, he says, "Ya know, I didn't miss. Veins are getting fragile. You're not staying hydrated." When House doesn't answer, he's not surprised. He takes a roll of gauze and begins to wrap the site.

"What're you doing?" House asks. "Told you, I'm fine now; I'll leave it alone. Said yourself, I just woke up, potassium was low."

"Potassium is _still_ low," Wilson says, looking pointedly at the full glass of juice. "And we're running outta veins. Humor me." He continues to wrap and tape the IV site securely while House glares at him.

Next, Wilson begins a thorough assessment. House's blood pressure is creeping down again, and his bowel sounds remain hyperactive. The main concern this morning, though, is his cardiac status. If his potassium's as low as Wilson suspects, then there could be arrhythmias. Wilson listens carefully, but hears none of the irregular heartbeats which would signify trouble. For right now, House appears to be holding his own.

"How's the pain? Any more problems with the left leg?"

"Pain's under control." That's all House says, and Wilson's so concerned with cardiac status, hydration status, and mentation that he doesn't notice that the question about the leg goes unanswered.

"You ready to move this party to the couch? Should be hearing from Cuddy soon about the bloodwork, then we'll know more. Don't worry about it; one step at a time. Got it under control." Wilson thinks a slight change of subject is in order. "Hey," he grins, as they make their way towards the living room. "I think Cuddy's gonna give us the plague! Cool, huh?"

House won't play. Once he's settled on the couch, he says, "We both know most of this could've been avoided. And _I_ should've been the one to avoid it. Expected more of a lecture. That's it? You're not angry?"

Wilson gives the question some thought. "Yeah, I'm angry. But not at you. I'm angry that we're in this situation. I'm angry at the part I played that got us here. I'm even angry that the general mindset is that narcotics are bad things. Hell, even _doctors_ believe that. I did." He sighs. "But House, my anger, my guilt, it's not gonna help get you better. So I'm gonna get past it, I _need_ to get past it, okay?"

House narrows his eyes. "Shrink tell you that?"

"Yeah… yes, he did. You wanna know anything else he said?" Wilson speaks slowly. "Because if you do, I'll tell you. They're sending the voice file. If you want to hear it, you can." House looks surprised.

"House, no tricks to this. I'm not trying to psych you out. I went because I want to be the best friend I can be, and the best doctor, because you deserve that. I didn't say anything to him that you can't hear, no secrets I don't want you to know. I'm not ashamed that I did it, not ashamed of anything I said."

Wilson's statement decides it for House. "No. Don't need to hear it. You did what you had to do. Good enough."

_Not the reaction I was expecting, _Wilson thinks. _But he's not himself; maybe the fireworks'll come later. Just hope he remembers that 'did what you had to do' attitude if he winds up needing the PICC line._

The phone rings. "I'm sure that's Cuddy with our results," Wilson says as he goes to answer it.

Cuddy sounds tense. "Just ran the 'lytes. Twice. Potassium's heading into the basement. 2.3 mEq. That's low enough to cause heart arrhythmias. How was the last cardiac assessment?"

Wilson glances at House, who is, thankfully, flipping idly through the TV channels. He keeps his voice calm, says casually, "No problems there."

"Not yet," Cuddy responds grimly. "He's right there, isn't he?"

"Yeah, okay."

"I'm on my way to Hospice to pick up the potassium and the Zofran. I'm also gonna get an EKG machine, and I'm bringing a cardiorespiratory monitor from here. He's gonna need to stay on it while we're replenishing the potassium; he'll be at risk for ventricular tachycardia. We'll have to monitor him closely. I'll get there as quickly as I can. Hospice is expecting me, and they have everything ready; I shouldn't be more than fifteen minutes or so."

"That should be just fine," Wilson says evenly, aware that now House has the TV muted, and is listening. "Anything else?"

"Indicative of moderate to severe dehydration; increased sed rate, high hematocrit. Liver profile looks surprisingly good, under the circumstances. Are you certain he's had only the one episode of vomiting? Because that wouldn't explain this potassium deficit…."

"I'll check into that. My guess would be probably not. Let you know."

Wilson hangs up the phone and turns back to House, trying to think how to phrase the question. _Just assume there were other episodes, and that naturally, they weren't worth mentioning. _"How many times would you guess you've vomited since we've been home?"

House turns back to the muted television. "Two, three maybe."

_Need to at least double that. _"So you haven't kept anything down at all?" He keeps his voice neutral, just mildly curious, no accusations.

"Don't think so. Problem?" House still won't look at him.

_No, but there could be at any time. _"Potassium's low. Good news is, could explain some of the symptoms; muscle cramps, anorexia—"

"Don't waste the good news/bad news routine, Jimmy. Save it for some moron who might buy it. Number?"

"It's low, House. Cuddy—"

"Number?"

Wilson sighs. "2.3. When was your last episode?"

"Bathroom. Few minutes after you and Cuddy left me this morning."

_Great. He doesn't need to be actively suicidal; passive's working out just fine. _Wilson picks up his stethoscope, and keeps his demeanor calm. "Lie back for me."

House complies while he searches Wilson's face for a reaction to his admission. "I'm in trouble, aren't—"

"Quiet, please." Wilson listens intently for several minutes. He's beginning to think they might've been lucky when he hears a definitive change in rhythm._ Gotta get that EKG. Where's Cuddy?_

Wilson straightens and looks down at House. He chooses to deliberately misinterpret the question House had been trying to ask. "No, no trouble yet. A few PVCs, that's all; could be perfectly harmless. Cuddy should be here any minute. We're gonna need to run an EKG, just to be safe; she's bringing the machine." He tries to convey a reassurance he doesn't feel, but his biggest concern right now is keeping House absolutely calm. _Let's steer the discussion away from his cardiac status; don't wanna answer any questions._ "From now on, we're gonna put you back on intakes/outputs, at least 'til the vomiting's under control. I'll need you to help me out with that; lemme know about _any_ more vomiting, okay?"

"Yeah… sure." House is puzzled; where's the lecture? _I'd feel better if he'd just yell or something; then I could yell back. _He regards Wilson appraisingly, but Wilson simply looks back at him with kind concern. This is too confusing; finally he just leans his head back into the pillow and closes his eyes. _Brain's just not working right. Should've said something. Stupid…. _He hears the doorbell, hears Wilson let Cuddy in. They're talking, but he can't make out the words. After a minute he quits trying, and just lets himself drift. It's getting so easy to drift.

"How's he doing?" Cuddy asks quietly.

"He's got some definite arrhythmias. Took awhile to hear 'em, but they're there. And he admitted that he's been bringing _everything_ up since we got home." Wilson makes a frustrated sound, and Cuddy puts a hand on his arm and speaks softly.

"Let me get him set up for the EKG. Go get some coffee, or something. Give yourself a few minutes. I'll get the fluids hung, get him ready."

"All right, I'll do that. But Cuddy…. Don't yell at him. I know, it's the natural reaction, but… well… he's so sick—"

Cuddy smiles. "Don't worry about it. I'll give him a hard enough time so he doesn't think I might actually be _worried_, but not hard enough to upset him. I know how to play the game. Okay?"

Wilson nods; it's true, Cuddy knows how to handle House, sometimes better than Wilson does. "I'll be in the kitchen. Call me when we're ready to run the EKG." As he walks to the kitchen, he's thinking that Dick's suggestion of getting a punching bag might actually have some merit.


	17. Chapter 17: Truth, and Consequences

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Truth, and Consequences

When Cuddy enters the living room, House appears to be dozing. She sets the EKG monitor down and approaches the couch quietly. "House?" she says gently, careful not to startle him. When he doesn't respond, she tries it a little louder. Then Wilson comes in, carrying the box of pharmacy supplies she'd left by the door. He removes one of the potassium-spiked bags of fluid from the box, and at Cuddy's nod, exchanges the normal saline for the new bag. "Have you been having any trouble waking him?" Cuddy asks.

"No; as a matter of fact, I'd have to say he's been sleeping pretty lightly." Wilson calls his name; no response. He puts his hand on House's shoulder and tries again. This time, House's eyes open wide and he sits up quickly.

"Wha—" House looks from Wilson to Cuddy; when they see the expression in his eyes, they realize immediately that they need to orient him quickly if they don't want a repeat of this morning's incident.

"It's okay," Cuddy smiles. "You're at home, House, on your couch. Your potassium's low, but we're already fixing that; you'll feel much better in just a few hours." She sits on the edge of the couch next to him, blocking any effort he might make to rise.

Wilson is already at the end of the couch, ready to place his hands securely on House's shoulders, if necessary. "We need to get you set up for an EKG, okay?" When House turns to look up at him, Wilson says quietly, almost like a secret, "It's all right," and then he smiles. And House visibly relaxes.

Cuddy smiles too. The bond between these two men never fails to amaze her, how each can calm—or anger—the other, with just a few words. "Okay now?" she asks. "You know what's going on?"

House nods. "It's a 'lyte imbalance; you're correcting it. And you need to get an EKG to check for arrhythmias. I'm fine; you can both stop looking at me like you might have to get out the tranquilizer gun." He sounds irritable, and quite rational.

Wilson and Cuddy smile at each other. Cuddy stands and starts to prepare the leads for the EKG. She asks Wilson, "Would you mind getting the cardiorespiratory monitor out of the trunk?" She moves away from House and signals for Wilson to join her. "Also get the red box. Code supplies; didn't wanna take any chances," she says in an undertone. When Wilson leaves, she moves back to House to begin applying the leads to his chest.

When Wilson returns from the car, he sees Cuddy glaring at House in mock anger; House looks like a not-very-sorry ten year old, caught with his hand in the… uh… cookie jar. Wilson laughs; the familiar scene is the most hopeful thing that's happened around here since their return from the hospital. He notes that Cuddy has turned the EKG machine away from House so that he won't be able to see the display. Wilson knows immediately that _that_ is just not gonna fly.

"Dr. Cuddy," he says humorously, "May I respectfully point out that House was the one to diagnose his own impending code following his surgery?" As he speaks, he's turning the display screen so that House can view it from his position on the couch. He's rewarded by a grateful look from the patient.

"Yeah, I was gonna remind her of that," House says, "But I got distracted by a _couple_ of things." House trains his eyes lasciviously on Cuddy's chest. For a moment, everything feels normal again for all three of them.

Wilson hates to break the spell of normalcy, but someone has to take charge here. "We ready to get started?" He sees the same look in House's eyes that he'd seen when they'd done the MRI on the right leg, and he knows that House has grasped the potential seriousness of his current situation. And this time, Wilson doesn't know how to make it better. At House's terse nod, he starts the machine, and three pairs of professional eyes are trained intently on the screen.

Wilson sees what's happening first, and decides Cuddy had the right idea when she'd hidden the display. He steps in front of the table, blocking House's view. "Look, this is not gonna be accurate if you don't relax, House. Your heart rate's climbing; just lie back like a good boy and let's get this over with. I promise, I'll give you the readout soon as it's done. Just close your eyes and relax for a few minutes."

To Wilson's surprise, House does as directed, without argument. Wilson and Cuddy exchange worried glances, then return their attention to the monitor. And now, their worry has a focus.

Cuddy puts a warning finger to her lips, indicating House's still-closed eyes with a tilt of her head. She's hoping he'll fall asleep so that she and Wilson can discuss the results of the EKG before they have to show it to House. It's clear that House is going to need continuous monitoring until the T wave abnormalities resolve. If that were the only problem, it might not be so bad, but she's also seeing a prominent U wave, and this combination makes Cuddy want to transport the man to ICU right now. She calms herself by remembering that these arrhythmias _are_ being treated. And she reminds herself that a commitment's been made to House. Unless his life is acutely in danger, she'll do everything in her power to honor it. She owes him that.

Cuddy gets her wish; House is either sleeping or not wanting to deal with what his EKG might show—his eyes remain closed as Wilson, with something approaching panic in his own eyes, tears the strip off the machine and motions her into the kitchen.

Wilson is pale as he looks once more at the strip. Then he reaches for the phone and says to Cuddy, "We need an ambulance and a bed in the unit." He's surprised when Cuddy takes the phone from him, and hangs it up.

"We're not going to do it that way," she tells him firmly. "We're treating the problem; he isn't in immediate danger."

"The danger might not be immediate, but it's undeniable! He's at risk for torsades de pointes; a potentially _fatal_ ventricular tachycardia isn't _intended_ to be treated in the home setting!" Wilson argues; he's clearly angry—_and_ scared. "And it's probable that we'd be in the hospital for only a few hours; correcting the potassium deficit will resolve the problem, and we could be back home by late evening."

"That's my point," she says. "We're going to risk his trust again, just because he needs to be watched closely for eight or ten hours? No." Her expression is resolute. "You've just been demoted, Wilson. For the next ten hours, you're the best friend—and that's _all_ you are. _I'm_ the physician."

Wilson sinks into a chair. "I don't think this is the best idea…."

"We've got all the code drugs," Cuddy reminds him. "And the monitors. You don't think he's just as safe under my supervision as he would be in the unit?"

"Of course I do. And his trust is _just_ as important to me. But…."

"All you have to do is be his friend. That's all you're _allowed_ to be. Keep him calm, show him you're confident. Leave the doctoring to me." Cuddy tries to convey to Wilson the same confidence she hopes he'll be able to impart to House over the next several hours.

Finally, Wilson nods. "Guess this is what you meant when you said no backing out when it gets too tough, huh?" He gives her a wan smile.

"Just do your job, and let me do mine. We'll get through this." She gives his arm a squeeze. "Let's go talk to my patient."


	18. Chapter 18: Trust

**A/N: **_I apologize profusely for the three day delay in updating; I've been dealing with my own 'pain control issues,' and the writing wasn't flowing as it should—not quite certain it is even now; however, this is what we've got…. _mjf

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Trust

"Wait." Wilson hasn't risen to follow Cuddy into the living room. She turns back to him questioningly. "Cuddy, I'm… sorry. I guess I just panicked for a minute. You're right; if we're able to maintain his trust and his privacy, we should. _I'm_ the one who made that commitment to him. I promised him no hospitals, no nasty surprises, and look at me now, caving in when it starts to get scary." He shakes his head sadly at his own failing.

Cuddy sighs, turns back into the kitchen, and sits down next to Wilson. "I need you with me on this 100 percent. If you've got doubts, then I can't be comfortable doing this; your support is essential. And _he_ needs you. I saw how quickly you were able to calm him down a few minutes ago, and that's gonna be important. But I haven't forgotten that this is difficult for you—and neither has House. He'd be very unhappy if he knew how torn you are right now. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd agree to go to the hospital just to spare you the worry."

"What are you talking about?" asks Wilson. "House has _no idea_—"

Cuddy interrupts him with soft laughter. "You two are unbelievable," she tells Wilson. "Do you know why, when he asked you on Sunday to be his doctor, he insisted that I remain his physician of record? The reason he gave me was that he didn't _ever_ want to put you in a position where a tough choice might have to be made. He didn't want you to have to go through that."

Wilson stares at Cuddy. "But he never said… I thought he was angry… I didn't think he wanted… but—" He stops talking and just looks at Cuddy, thoroughly confused.

Cuddy says with exasperated amusement, "Very eloquent! If what you're trying to say is that you didn't realize that he respects you, and appreciates you, and _worries_ about you, then you're about as emotionally blind as _he_ is. I'd like to knock _both_ your heads together. Just when I think one of you really _gets_ it, then the other one gets all stupid. Admittedly, that's usually House, but apparently you can be just as dense." She shakes her head, frustrated, and Wilson can swear he hears her mutter '_Men!' _under her breath.

"I get all that; I really do," he tells her. "But most of the time, he just seems to resent that he has to need _anyone_. I guess I've become so expert at pretending that he_ doesn't_ need anyone that sometimes I believe it myself."

"Hold that thought, and don't move," says Cuddy, standing. "I've got to go check on him, but I'll be right back. We need to have this discussion, and we need to finish it before we talk with him about his condition."

When Cuddy enters the living room, she's relieved to see that House is still sleeping, and that there's been no change for the worse on the EKG monitor. There's been no improvement, either, but it's been only 10 minutes, and this is a procedure that can't be rushed. If she tries to raise the potassium level too quickly, the result will be congestive heart failure. So—while the temptation to resolve the deficit as quickly as possible is understandable—Cuddy's decided to be even more cautious than she'd be in the hospital setting. And because she's afraid that he might awaken while she and Wilson are not in the room, and figure things out for himself, she again turns the display away from him before returning to the kitchen.

Wilson is still looking pretty miserable. "How's he doing?" he asks.

"Sleeping; no changes. I need to know; are you going to be able to do this? Because I'm confident that we can handle this right here—if he's got you to help him through it. And I'm equally certain that if he's going to be picking up on _any_ fears or doubts from you… well, you might as well call that ambulance right now."

Wilson's never seen Cuddy like this; she's taken charge, and she's clearly expecting complete cooperation and belief in her decision. But she seems almost _driven_ to accomplish something that, at any other time, she'd quickly declare too dangerous. "Cuddy, what's up with you?" But as he asks the question, it comes to him. She's been willing to break rules, flaunt policy, and now maybe even risk House's life because of what she'd done six years ago when she'd allowed the surgery on House's leg. Now, Wilson needs to make certain that she's doing this for reasons other than misplaced guilt. "If this were anyone but House, would you even be considering this?" he asks.

"No, I wouldn't," Cuddy responds. "But… not for the reasons you think. Yes, I owe him for what happened. But even if I'd had no part in the surgery, I'd still want to do this for him, for the same reasons _you_ had for starting this whole thing, when he collapsed in his office. I really _do_ care about him, you know. And I know how much he hates this, how it goes against everything he wants us to believe about him. Call me weak, but it makes me hurt for him, and want to make it better." Cuddy pauses and takes a deep breath, and Wilson can tell that she feels as if she may have revealed too much. "So that's what I'm doing, and why I'm doing it. And if you ever share any of this with him, I'll deny it all, in the strongest possible language." She gives Wilson a shaky smile, and then, because she's Cuddy, she pulls it together, and asks, "So, with me on this?"

And all Wilson can do is nod, and follow her into the living room.

"We're gonna have to wake him," Cuddy says as they watch House, noting the shallow breathing, the pale skin. "We need to get him moved to the bedroom, get some oxygen going. And we need to let him know what we found." She and Wilson look at each other for a long moment, and a wordless decision is made that Wilson will handle it.

He sits on the edge of the couch, lays his hand on House's shoulder. "House, gotta talk. C'mon, wake up; DDX is over, need to talk about treatment."

House's eyes open slowly, and Wilson is again struck by just how ill he is. He's gaunt, and pale, and it seems as if the effort of holding his eyes open is just too much. But after a moment, House carefully eases himself into a sitting position, clears his throat, and focuses on Wilson. "What've we got? Where's the readout?" he asks.

Wilson hands him the strip of paper and watches his face carefully as he studies it. Finally, House looks up. "Not good." His eyes are asking what they plan to do, but he won't say the words.

Wilson glances at Cuddy, standing quietly off to the side. _It's showtime; wish me luck. _Cuddy gives him a small nod and moves to stand beside him.

"House, Cuddy here is still reluctant to punish the nurses by admitting you. So she's insisting on punishing herself instead—she's gonna take over your care, right here, for the next few hours, get you through this."

House studies Cuddy's face as she looks back at him, unblinking. Then he turns to Wilson. "Where _you_ gonna be?"

"Well, I was gonna go catch a double feature, but someone's gotta protect the lady; guess I'm elected. I've… uh… been ordered to pack away my doctor kit until further notice, so you're stuck with me. We'll just hang out, okay?"

House looks from one to the other of them, and they can tell that he's figured it all out; he's analyzing every aspect of their plan. And they see in his eyes that he's decided to trust them. He's surprised that they've agreed to do this; he's got that strange protected feeling again, and he decides to just go with it.

"Okay." House looks at Cuddy. "What's next?"

"First, we need to get you back to bed," she says briskly. "Get you hooked up, maybe some O2 for a while." Cuddy asks Wilson, "Can you help him into the bedroom?"

Before Wilson can answer, House says, "I don't need any help; perfectly capable of limping into my own bedroom unassisted. And I don't need oxygen, either; I'll let you know on that."

Cuddy looks at him. _Okay, this is where we establish the ground rules. You're trying to see if you can run this show, how much I'll let you get away with. We can't afford to let you win this one, House, so just play nice and follow the rules. _"Can you help him into the bedroom?" she repeats to Wilson, as if House hadn't spoken.

"Glad to," Wilson says quickly, and before House can argue, he stands and starts to remove the EKG leads from House's chest, successfully pretending that House isn't glaring daggers at him. When he finishes the task, he says to House, "I'm going to help you stand, slowly. Grab the IV pole, and let's get this show on the road." Without looking at House's face, he gently places his arms under House's elbows, wrapping his hands around his upper arms, and, taking most of his friend's weight, lifts him to a standing position. He keeps his hands firmly in place while House gains his balance and locks his fingers around the handle on the pole. As they start the walk to the bedroom, Cuddy looks on in amusement as she notes, not for the first time, the unconscious way in which Wilson's normally assured gait now mimics House's less stable one.

They reach the bedroom, and Wilson lowers House carefully to the bed, helps him swing his legs up and get settled. The short walk has tired House out, and he doesn't protest the assistance. Cuddy's right behind them, carrying the portable O2 setup. Looking an apology to Wilson, she hands it to him while she gets ready to hook up the cardiorespiratory monitor. He thinks briefly of reminding her that she's stripped him of his medical privileges, decides she'd probably not see the humor in that right now, and sets to work.

House watches the two of them getting everything set up around his bed. He's aware that a lot of thought, a lot of talk, and probably some arguing have gone into this decision. He's puzzled that either of them would go to such lengths for him, but he's grateful. _Wish I could thank 'em, but then they'd really think there's something wrong with me. Smart of Cuddy to pull Jimmy off the case; glad she did that. He's really scared; never seen him like this—he's ready to call the ambulance now. Never seen Cuddy so determined, either. Good thing, too—looks like she'll have to pull us both through. Can't think of anyone better for that job, though. _When Wilson reaches over to place the nasal cannula in his nose, House doesn't even give him a dirty look. He reserves that look for when Wilson places the urinal beside the bed.

"Sorry, House," Wilson says. "But you're a doctor; you know as well as I do that you're bedbound until your cardiac status reverts to normal sinus rhythm." Wilson looks at the cardiorespiratory monitor that Cuddy's just finished hooking up. "And we're a long way from that, so just do us all a favor—try to relax."

"I'm with Wilson," Cuddy says as she picks up a stethoscope. "And if you can't relax on your own, I'm not adverse to a little IV Ativan to help you along." She finishes wrapping the BP cuff around House's arm, and holds out the pulse oximeter probe for his finger. He grabs it out of her hand and puts it on.

"Ask me, you two'd benefit from the Ativan more than I would," he grumbles.

Wilson laughs. "Sadly, that's probably true. But let's examine the _reason_ we'd benefit from a dose of Ativan right now, shall we?"

As Wilson and Cuddy watch him with amusement, even House can't help smiling a little—he'd waltzed right into that one. "Hey, why don't you google '_patient compliance_;' they just illustrated it with a picture of me, very flattering shot, check it out!" And he's glad he's made them laugh.


	19. Chapter 19: Dangerous

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Dangerous

When Cuddy and Wilson have composed themselves again, House has a question. He's aware that he keeps sleeping through the important parts, and he wants to be brought up to speed. "Have you started the Zofran yet?"

Cuddy shakes her head. "No, I want to wait until the Compazine has cleared out, and you're not going to be eating anything for the next eight hours or so anyway, so we'll start that tonight. We'll also be using IV morphine, at dosages equivalent to your super-Vic, for your next two doses. We need to keep your stomach empty, no extra strain on your cardiovascular system, okay?"

House regards her dubiously. "Ah, so the empty stomach requirement has absolutely _nothing_ to do with the possible need for intubation, then," he says, only mildly sarcastic.

Cuddy grows very serious. "I don't want you to worry about that." Her eyes go to the red code box, and so do House's. "I've covered every possible contingency, and hey—you've got two of Princeton Plainsboro's finest right here with you, all the way." Both Cuddy and House turn towards Wilson, who's grown terribly quiet at the thought of having to intubate House. _Don't blow it now, Wilson_, Cuddy thinks.

Wilson looks at House, smiling. "Don't forget, I've got a vested interest in pulling you through this; where will I go after my next divorce if you're not around?"

"I've left you the couch in my will," House says dryly. No one smiles.

Wilson takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the bed, next to House. He waits until House is really looking at him before he starts to speak. "I trust Cuddy. I'd trust my life to her. I trust _your_ life to her. And I made you a promise when all this started. I told you I'd keep you safe. I will. Always. Whatever it takes. Simple as that." He keeps his eyes trained on House's, allows House to explore his gaze for any doubt, any fear, and makes certain he finds none. When he stands, he allows his hand to brush across House's clenched fingers, gives them a quick squeeze, could've almost been an accident. He turns from the bed, and, his back to House, he closes his eyes and silently prays it was good enough.

Cuddy jumps in quickly; she's been watching the monitor, and she's seen House's heart rate climb since he'd started this conversation, seen a few extra PVCs race across the screen. "Okay, guys, enough with the chatter for now, please. I've got an assessment to complete."

She crosses over to House and shushes him as he starts to speak again—his eyes are still on Wilson. She places the stethoscope on his chest, hoping to cut off any more attempts at conversation, trying to give Wilson a few moments. But House is still trying to speak. She looks up, sternly, and says, "If you don't settle down _right now_, I've got that Ativan handy, ya know."

House sighs, and she can hear the frustration—and the worry—in the sound. But then he closes his eyes, and she can see him make a conscious attempt to calm himself, and when she listens to his heart she hears the rhythm start to settle back down.

When Wilson turns and comes back to the bedside, it's clear that he's finally made peace with Cuddy's decision. His expression is neutral, his voice gently chiding, as he says to House, "Hey, Cuddy may be in charge of the medicine here, but I'm in charge of your behavior. Lucky me. Try not to make me look _too_ bad, okay?" House doesn't open his eyes, but a slightly mischievous smile quirks his mouth. Both Wilson and Cuddy are able to relax again.

When Cuddy finishes the assessment, she says to Wilson, "I'm gonna go get a chart started; think you can handle him from here?" Wilson nods, and takes advantage of House's still closed eyes to indicate to Cuddy that House has a clear view of the monitor, should he choose to look at it. Cuddy turns it slightly, so that Wilson can still see it but House can't, and leaves the room quietly.

Wilson settles down in the chair by the bed, propping his feet up on the corner of the mattress. "You awake?" he asks softly. When House nods after a few seconds' delay, Wilson knows that if he simply remains quiet, House'll be back to sleep in no time. So he leans his own head back and closes his eyes to wait him out.

---

The dream sneaks up on Wilson, just as sleep has. And—while the unexpected sleep is welcome—the dream, from its beginning, is not.

House is on that damned motorcycle, and Wilson is following in his car. They're on their way home from the hospital. It's a beautiful, clear day, and Wilson's having a moment of regret that House can no longer go running. But he's hoping that he can at least convince House that a trip to the park to enjoy the sun might not be out of the question.

House is heading into the curve that Wilson's always yelling at him about; he insists on taking it far too fast, and—especially when it's raining—the curve's too sharp for such stupidity. _At least I don't have to worry about rain today_, he thinks as he trains his eyes on the bike, willing House to back off on the speed. So he's watching as the motorcycle suddenly seems to go even faster, and it's not following the curve of the road—it's heading straight for the brick retaining wall, and House is making no attempt to correct its path. And he's watching when the bike, going in excess of 80mph, hits the wall. There's a moment then when Wilson can't see anything at all—his vision's gone black, and then dizziness makes him instinctively pull the car to the right, and off the road.

As soon as the car stops, Wilson's out of it, and running. As he reaches House, yards away from the crumpled bike, he sees that pieces of House's helmet are scattered all around, as if it had exploded. He swallows the bile that rises in his throat, and makes it to House's side. He can see that House is breathing, but the respirations are already agonal, and Wilson knows. He gently lifts one eyelid, and then the other, and feels no surprise that both pupils are blown; there's no more blue in those eyes, just the flat, dull black of death.

When he sinks to the ground and gently takes House's head in his lap, he can feel the spongy area in his skull that indicates a depressed fracture—the injury that had sealed House's fate at the moment of impact. _No_, he thinks._ House sealed his own fate when he got on the bike. It wasn't an accident. _"You lied to me," he whispers to House as the uneven respirations start to slow. "You promised me that I wouldn't be the one to find you…." He hears the first onlookers start yelling that they've called 911, and he hopes that the ambulance comes slowly. House is already dead, but the broken shell can breathe for a few minutes more. He won't allow them to code his friend; it's the last thing he'll do for him, if it comes to that.

He looks down and sees rain on his hands, cupped lovingly around House's head, rain on House's face, mixing with the blood. He's confused; the sun's still shining brightly, but as he lifts his head to look at the sky, he can feel the rain on his own face, too.

"Wilson. Wilson!" _Who would be calling to me out here? These people are all strangers. Go away; please be quiet. My brother's dying. He doesn't like a lot of people; leave us alone--_

"_Jimmy_!" He lifts his head, startled awake, and discovers that the rain, and the blood, are only tears—_his _tears, and a lot of them. And the voice is House's, only feet away from him, with blue eyes again, and those eyes are looking at him… watching him cry.


	20. Chapter 20: Diagnostics

**A/N: **_For those of you who've not read 'The Devil, You Say,' the promise Wilson references in the previous chapter that House made to him is near the end of Chapter 14 (Questions… and Answers) in 'Devil.' I should've made the reference clearer; sorry! _mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY: Diagnostics

Wilson scrubs at his wet face with hands that are just as wet, and steals a look at the monitor; if he's upset House, he'll never forgive himself. Cardiac status pretty much the same, but respirations are too shallow, too rapid. _Damn_. "It's okay, House; I'm okay."

House is watching him appraisingly; his gaze is so intense that Wilson looks uncomfortably away. When he's able to look back, House's eyes are still on him. "I said I'm fine; you need to calm down, you can't afford to get upset right now. Take a few slow, deep breaths for me, okay?" House still hasn't spoken, just continues to watch Wilson. "Look, it was a dream, a bad dream, that's all. Sorry I disturbed you."

Wilson knows the technique House is using; he's employed it himself, many times. Just gaze, wordlessly, at the patient until the silence makes him so uncomfortable, and he's babbling so much to fill it, that the truth slips out, finally. But Wilson's never been 'the patient' with the embarrassing information before; it's not a role he's enjoying. And he knows that House is the undisputed master of this particular diagnostic game. So he's glad of the distraction when Cuddy enters the room, wearing a stethoscope, carrying a package of syringes.

"Leave us," House says to her.

"But I need to do the assessment, give you your noon meds," Cuddy protests, puzzled. _What the hell has happened now? Last time I checked, they were both asleep. Why won't Wilson look at me? And House looks just this side of upset; surely Wilson knows better than to argue with him right now—_

"Five minutes. Please." House says. He still hasn't looked toward her; he hasn't looked away from Wilson's face.

"Is everything all right? Because this isn't really a good time to be arguing politics, or even discussing the deeper meanings of life, and I'd prefer—"

"Cuddy…." She hears an undisguised plea, and a demand, in House's voice, and when a check of the monitor assures her that nothing too terrible is happening, she nods at House. "Five minutes; I'll be back."

House isn't going to give up until Wilson gives him something. "I dreamed about… my brother." _Still with the unnerving gaze._ "He was… dying." _No go; damn, House is good at this._ "I was there; I held him while he…." The tears are threatening again, and Wilson stops speaking, glares almost defiantly at House.

But House has heard what he needs. He finally looks away from Wilson, and says, casually, to the ceiling, "Did you know you talk in your sleep? Pretty lucid, too—none of the usual indistinct mumbling."

_So you knew all along; you just needed to confirm your diagnosis, you… you… limping twerp. And don't you ever forget what that translates into, House. _Now it's Wilson's turn; he looks at House and waits. Just waits.

House finally takes that long, slow, deep breath before turning his head back towards his friend. When he speaks, the words are carefully measured. "I'm not gonna die. At least not until _you've_ been raised properly." He looks, hard, at Wilson. "Figure _that's_ gonna take a long, long time. Now, go wash your face before Cuddy comes back and thinks I've been verbally abusing you again; it'll make her jealous." His voice is rough, dismissive, but Wilson hears the caring hidden beneath the words and allows himself to take comfort from it.

"Holding you to that," he says as he rises from the chair.

When Wilson returns, Cuddy's just finished injecting the morphine into the IV port. She studies Wilson's face carefully, and widens her eyes in a question. He smiles at her. "Just had to clear up a few… family matters that came up… unexpectedly. We're okay; no blood was shed." Wilson closes his eyes briefly to rid his mind of the picture that's popped up. "How's the patient, Dr. Cuddy?" Cuddy frowns at him, and Wilson wonders if he shouldn't have saved the question until they were out of House's hearing.

"I'd planned on running repeat 'lytes at 2:00, but… he's not progressing. As a matter of fact, the premature ventricular contractions are increasing in frequency. So I'm gonna get the blood now; we'll continue to monitor the PVCs, but—dependent on the results of the labs—I'd really like to up the rate on the potassium."

Wilson and Cuddy look at House to see how he's responding to this news. The morphine's kicking in, and he's got an air of detachment about the whole thing. "Sounds good to me," he says.

"I'll just draw the blood, then, find out where we are." Cuddy locates a smaller vein that hasn't previously been punctured, and successfully draws off 3cc.

"We'll be okay while you get that to the lab," Wilson says.

"No, I'm not leaving. Thought I made it clear that you're not to play doctor for a while, and I've—"

"Then I'll take it and run it," Wilson interrupts; it's important that there are no records in the lab or on the computers at PPTH.

"If you'd let me _finish_," Cuddy says pointedly, "I've made arrangements for a courier from Princeton General to pick it up. No one has to leave. House needs his physician here, but it's just as important that he's got his… family… too. So everybody just relax."

"I'm plenty relaxed," House chimes in, clearly floating on the morphine. "I'm _so_ relaxed I'm gonna let you two finish this fight without a referee…." His voice fades away; he's gone to sleep.

Cuddy and Wilson look at each other and step out of the room. "How bad is it?" Wilson asks.

"Not dangerous yet, and maybe it's still too early to be expecting an improvement. I'm being cautious with the potassium, maybe _too_ cautious, but I don't like the fact that he's getting _any_ worse, even marginally."

The doorbell rings, and Cuddy answers it. She hands the small bag of labeled tubes to the courier. "Have them call me with those results the minute they have them," she tells him. She closes the door and turns back to Wilson. "I hope he stays asleep until we find out where we stand; it's the safest thing for him right now."

The words are scarcely out of her mouth when a weak, hesitant voice says, barely audibly, from the bedroom, "Feel… funny… something's big time not… right… help?" The last word is little more than a whispered question. And they run.


	21. Chapter 21: Crisis

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Crisis

When they reach the bedroom, Cuddy's eyes fly to the monitor, which has just started alarming, and Wilson's eyes go to House, who is pale, sweaty, and undeniably frightened.

"What's happening?" House gasps. "Can't see… monitor."

Wilson looks to Cuddy for the answer; she appears stunned, and almost as pale as House is, but when she answers her voice is strong, and unbelievably calm, and reassuring. "You're having a run of v-tach, House. We need you to try and stay with us, fight it. I'm gonna sedate you right now; you let it work on calming down your heart, but don't let it shut off your brain; gotta stay with us."

Wilson studies House while Cuddy administers the sedation. House's heart rate is 152 per minute, and Wilson can actually see the organ beating too fast, and irregularly, in the thin chest. His skin is pale, almost translucent—pulsing veins are visible at his temples. He's sweating profusely, and his eyes are darting wildly around the room. Wilson grabs House's hand, sits down on the bed as House's heart rate climbs above 160.

"House, listen to me," he says. "Focus on my voice. You can do this. You _have_ to do this; help us help you. _No_, buddy, don't close your eyes, stay here with me. House! Open your eyes. Not gonna stop yelling until they're open, so do it! _House_!"

Cuddy's finished pushing the med. "I gave him 10mg diazepam; he may not be able to fight it off. And it's not helping," she says as the heart rate hits 180.

"He'll fight it off," Wilson says tensely. "House, c'mon, open your eyes, lemme know you're still in there. Your big chance to prove Cuddy wrong, House, don't blow it! House!"

_Shut up, Jimmy, go 'way. Wanna sleep, not so scary now, nuthin' hurts. If this is 'dead,' know what? I'll take it. Not such a bad thing, not such a bad place… if you'd just quit yellin' at me… please…._

"HOUSE!" Wilson shouts, "Open your eyes!"

_Stop already, okay? Don't wanna play anymore, tired of fighting, no more no more no…._

"Heart rate's getting ready to hit 190," Cuddy says to Wilson. "I'm cardioverting at 200." She's getting the portable defibrillator ready. "Gonna try some magnesium, too. Can't hurt him. And I'm upping the potassium; congestive heart failure's easier to treat than this." Now she directs her words to House. "Not gonna lose you, House. I have no intention of being haunted for the next fifty years, so pull it together here!" She's shouting, too.

_Cuddy, kindly shut up, okay? Lemme die in peace. Sorry about the clinic hours… hell, no I'm not; shouldn't tell lies on your deathbed. One thing, though… take care of Jimmy, okay? Jimmy… just made 'im a promise… promised not to… aw, Jimmy…._

House wills his eyes open. It takes a tremendous effort to focus, and, when he's finally able to see, he's looking right into Wilson's eyes, only inches from his own, and he can't see anything else. He pulls in a searing breath, and forces words out on the exhale. "scaphoid… lunate…" he whispers. "triquetrum… pisiform…"

"Heart rate's falling!" Cuddy shouts in triumph. She looks at House, and sees that he's whispering, although she can't make out the words.

And Wilson has a small smile on his face as he says to House, "That's right, keep going, only twenty-three more. Good job, buddy. What's next? Keep those eyes open; what's next?"

"trapezium… trapezoid… capitate…."

"Wilson, heart rate's down below 160!" Cuddy says happily. She frowns at House, puzzled. "What's he saying?"

Wilson keeps his eyes locked with House's, and his grin grows wider as he says to Cuddy, "He's listing all the bones in the human hand. He's forcing himself to stay focused. He's decided to stay with us!"

"hamate… hook… of hamate… phalanges…."

"Down to 120, and look—sinus tach! The v-tach's resolved. We did it; _he_ did it!" Cuddy heaves a long sigh, and she's grinning now, too. She collapses onto the bed, sitting on the other side of House. She puts her stethoscope to her ears and listens to his chest, then looks up, satisfied. "It's over."

House looks at Wilson and says, his voice still little more than a whisper, "Hand."

Wilson smiles indulgently down at House, "Yeah, I remember anatomy, too. Bones of the hand. Pretty clever way to stay focused, though."

"No… _hand_. Was… listing all the bones you're… crushing. Cane hand, too. Let go now?" One side of House's mouth quirks up as Wilson realizes he's still holding, very tightly, to the hand he'd grabbed at the start of this. Both House's hand and Wilson's are absolutely white, and Wilson has difficulty letting go; his hand has effectively cramped around House's.

"Sorry; didn't realize," he says as he untangles his hand from House's. "Did I hurt you?"

"'S'okay… the pain helped. Kind've… an anchor, ya know?" The two men exchange a look so warm and private that Cuddy suddenly feels she's intruding. She stands, and begins to gather up the empty syringes.

When she retrieves a syringe she'd tossed on the sheet, she glances at House and sees that he's shivering. "Are you okay?" she asks him, worried again.

"Just cold." His voice is a little stronger now; talking doesn't seem as much of an effort. "Got a little sweaty there tryin' to stay alive, I guess. Hard work."

Wilson stands. "Let's get that fixed. I'll be right back."

Wilson returns quickly with a basin of warm water and several towels. He retrieves a dry t-shirt from the dresser, and sets the basin on the nightstand. "Don't move," he directs House. "Let _me_ do all the work here; you just relax." He slips his hands under House's back and lifts him slowly, gently, to a sitting position, bringing him all the way forward so that House's upper chest is supported against Wilson's right arm.

Cuddy's reminded of a mother bathing a baby. Wilson's so gentle, and so natural, that House's dignity is never in question, not even now, in the face of his helplessness. The two talk quietly, one or the other of them occasionally laughing softly. Cuddy goes about the task of cleaning up the reminders of the crisis they've just come through together, and enjoying the gentle peace of the scene in front of her. And she's glad that she'd made the decision to keep House at home; House and Wilson are proving it was the right thing to do, for _all_ of them. She smiles over at them, and even House returns the smile, just a little. And it's enough.


	22. Chapter 22: Interlude

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Interlude

Once House has been settled again, the sedation Cuddy had given him enables him to quickly fall asleep. His heart rate is still slightly elevated, and the monitor continues to show an occasional PVC, but he's clearly out of immediate danger. And when the lab at Princeton General calls with the results of the bloodwork, they discover that increasing the rate of the potassium infusion, and even the dose of magnesium Cuddy had given during the near-code, were the right things to do. Cuddy and Wilson look at each other in satisfaction as they quietly leave the bedroom to speak in private for a few minutes.

As they sit in the living room, Wilson looks gratefully at Cuddy. "Thank you," he says, simply.

"For what?" she asks. "I'm the one who should be thanking you, and House, for allowing me to be a part of this. It's been frightening, and fulfilling, and… remarkable. I've felt like a physician again. I've watched House recover a little of his trust in the human race—or at least in us. I've seen one of the most incredible friendships in action. And I even _feel_ like a friend, myself. To _both_ of you." She smiles and shakes her head. "Never would've thought he'd let me in this way."

"Cuddy, if you hadn't supported this, from the beginning, it could never have happened. Your decision to allow this, and to participate in it, saved his life. I'm convinced of it. If we'd wound up having to hospitalize him, odds are the ethics committee would've turned down our request for the pain control procedure. Once they turned us down, we'd have been able to treat only his acute pain, and the whole place would know he'd moved up to morphine. At best, he'd have left the hospital with his pain only partially controlled, and with half the staff considering him impaired. At worst, he'd have been forced into a treatment program he doesn't need, for what's viewed as an addiction. And _if_ he'd lived through it, he'd have come out even more bitter, and less trusting, than he was when we started all this. Now, because of what you did, his privacy's been protected, his… dignity. With House, those things are just as important as his health."

Cuddy looks seriously at Wilson. "We're far from being out of the woods, you know. He's debilitated; his condition's still quite serious. We made it through this crisis, and we're all feeling pretty good right now, but we can't afford to lose sight of how much work there still is to do, how much care he still needs."

"I know, but it's like I told House this morning; if we hadn't done the pain control procedure, we still wouldn't be aware of how much his general condition's deteriorated. And God knows how much further…." Wilson doesn't need to continue; both he and Cuddy strongly suspect _exactly_ how much further House's health would have fallen before he'd have said anything to anyone.

"And there's something else," Wilson says. "You need to know how much easier you're making it today, for me. I'll be honest; I resented it when you pulled rank this morning. Hell, I didn't just resent it; I was angry. And… you turned out to be right. I was able to be there for him during the v-tach, and it was a relief to be able to concentrate on supporting him without having to juggle the medical side of it, too. These next eight hours, they're a gift, really. House has so many medical problems right now that sometimes I forget what it's like just to be his _friend_. He's accused me of that, ya know. I deny it, of course, but… he's right. And… well… thank you."

Cuddy reaches over and squeezes his hand. "It's okay. Really. You're worried about him, and you want to make it better—you're _trained_ to make it better, so it's natural to act on that. But… sometimes, it's more important for you _not_ to look at him through a physician's eyes. I like to tease him that you're his only friend, but… it's not a joke. He's been so successful at pushing everyone else away that his reliance on you, well, it's gotta be scary sometimes. And especially right now, trying to play _both_ roles, when both are equally important… I know it's tough. Glad I could help."

"Me too," Wilson smiles. "Just hope he realizes now that you're on that short list too. Funny thing is, I think he does."

"Yeah, well, to quote the other person on that list, I'm not in this for the gratitude." Cuddy looks thoughtful. "Have you ever figured out what it is that makes us care about him, _despite_ him? Because I've given that a lot of thought recently, and I'll be damned if I can figure it out."

Wilson has to laugh at this. "Stop trying; you'll never figure it out. But if you do, let _me_ know. All these years, I _still_ wonder."

There's a moment of amused silence, and then Cuddy asks, "When are you gonna tell him about the PICC line?"

"So you agree there's no way to avoid that?" Wilson asks. He knows that it's going to be necessary, but he'll feel a bit better about it if Cuddy thinks so too.

"No question," she says immediately. "Apparently, the pain's depressed his appetite for so long that his body no longer recognizes the normal hunger signals. Now that the pain's under control, that'll come back, but we need to get some weight on him. The man's got no reserves left."

"I can't tell him today, not with his 'lytes out of whack; wouldn't be fair. And I wouldn't do it anyway; why raise his anxiety? I'll tell him tomorrow, just a little while before we actually do it, give him a few minutes to yell, then just get it done. Not looking forward to it. What time's the mobile x-ray scheduled for?"

"Two o'clock. I can reschedule if you want me to."

"No," Wilson says slowly. "That's over 24 hours from now. He'll be as recovered as he's gonna get from the electrolyte imbalance. No sense putting it off." He stands and rubs at the back of his neck. "Gonna go sit with 'im a while. Don't want him to wake up alone."

Wilson returns to the bedroom. Before he sits, he studies the monitors, and then House. The monitor display tells him that House's recovery from the current problem is now progressing uneventfully. But a look at his sleeping friend doesn't bring as much assurance.

House is still too pale, despite the oxygen. His eyes are sunken into a face which grows more gaunt daily. He looks sick. He looks… old. Wilson lowers himself quietly into the bedside chair. "Oh, House," he whispers, sadly. "How did we let this happen?"

"Stop it."

Wilson startles; House has opened his eyes and spoken, and now he's looking at Wilson, and he looks angry.

"Just stop blaming yourself," House continues. "I know it feeds your martyr complex and all, but it's wrong. I'm a grownup; I've even got a medical degree. If anyone 'let this happen' _I_ did. But I didn't. And neither did you, or Cuddy, or anyone else. Yeah, maybe I ignored some things. And maybe you did, too. But you didn't _set out _for this to happen… or _did_ you?"

Wilson is startled by the question until he sees the old sly grin sneaking its way across House's face. "Yeah, well, you said I have this need to be needed; had to feed the need," he parries back.

"Next time then, just ask me to get a head cold or something, okay, Jimmy? This is just a little drastic, don't you think?"

"Amen to that!" Wilson smiles. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"What, and miss all this one-on-one time with my best bud?" House's face becomes serious. "We're gonna be able to fix this, aren't we?" The question isn't asked with confidence; Wilson hears real fear.

"House, you once told me that you and I could rule the world! Believe me, we can handle a little mechanical problem. And about that head cold?"

"Yeah?"

"As I recall, last time you had one of those, you O.D'd on Benadryl, _and_ you made sure that everyone in the building 'felt your pain.' In spades. Next time, let's just go with a simple hangnail, 'k?"

House's grin isn't sedative-induced; it's real, and it's grateful. Wilson grins back.


	23. Chapter 23: The Eyes Have It

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: The Eyes Have It

"House, you really _do_ need to be sleeping. Cuddy gave you enough diazepam to knock you out for at least six hours. And by that time, this'll be almost over. Why not just sleep through it?" Wilson is glad that he and House have talked about House's current status, but even the small effort of speech right now steals strength House just can't afford to lose. And he can tell that House is consciously fighting the sedation. "I'm gonna be right here; close your eyes and go with it, okay?"

"I'm fine; can't we just talk a few minutes? Been a while, ya know. You're always so busy fussing and worrying and checking; forget what it's like to just talk."

_He's right, _Wilson thinks. _I admitted as much to Cuddy, and I can't say it to him. Not being fair to him; he's critically ill, and all he's got around him are doctors. No friends, no family, just… doctors. I say I'm his family, his best friend, and then when he tells me that's who he needs me to be, I still focus on his condition. Not this time; I know Dick said I've gotta be firm with him, take charge of the whole health thing—but not right now._

"I miss it too," he says to House. "You're right; it's crazy not to take advantage of Cuddy's stupidity in leaving the two of us to our own devices; you'd think she'd know better than that!" The remark is calculated to amuse House, to get him to relax; the anxiety behind his eyes is almost always there now, and Wilson's decided that for today, at least, his most important job is banishing it.

"You know what would _so_ be the best?" House asks.

Wilson sees that, the way the bedside chair's positioned, House has to lift his head from the pillow to see Wilson sitting beside him. And he's having difficulty keeping it lifted. "Nooo, what would that be?" Wilson asks with a smile, as he unobtrusively angles the chair so that House can lean back again.

"Wouldn't it be too cool to go out into the living room, turn on the soaps? It'd drive Cuddy _crazy_." House, weak as he is, is grinning like a kid; there's a spark in his eyes that's been missing for days.

"Brilliant idea," Wilson says. "I'm sure it would be a lot of fun, and I haven't caught an entire episode of General Hospital in, oh, like, _ever_, so it'd be nice to catch up on what I've missed. But… uh… how do you propose we get you and all your… accessories out there?" _You can't even lift your head! Please, House, tell me this is a joke._

"Yeah… just a thought. Woulda been fun." The spark goes out of House's eyes; it's replaced with a dull resignation, an expression that's become all too familiar to Wilson lately.

Wilson watches his friend for a long moment; he makes a decision, and refuses to allow himself time to examine it. "House… how bad do you want this?" he asks.

House looks at him quizzically. "Whaddaya mean? How bad do I wanna mess with Cuddy? You have to _ask_?"

"Right; silly question. What I meant was, want it bad enough to let me be your transportation?"

"Huh?" House looks confused by the question, but hope's starting to creep back into his eyes.

"It's a good thirty feet from here to the couch; you… uh… shouldn't walk at the moment." _You can't walk at the moment; pretty sure you can't even sit up unassisted._ "Want it enough to let me carry you?" He cocks an eyebrow at House, and allows a touch of mischief to enter his own eyes. His look tries to convey that they're not a very sick man who's reliant on others for everything, even moving, and his anxiety-ridden, worried best friend—they're just two dumb kids, having fun on a free afternoon.

House studies him while the hope creeps the rest of the way into his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Want it that bad."

Wilson stands up before his brain can start listing all the reasons this qualifies as the stupidest thing he's ever done, might even be the stupidest thing he's ever _considered_ doing. "Okay, gonna go do reconnaissance; be right back." He walks quietly into the living room; Cuddy's in the kitchen, her back to the door, working—he can hear the click of the laptop keys. Quickly, Wilson straightens out the bedding on the couch, adds a couple more pillows.

He pokes his head into the kitchen; Cuddy looks up from her paperwork, distracted. "House is resting; gonna straighten up the living room a bit," he tells her. She gives him a vague smile and goes back to work.

When he returns to the bedroom, the anticipation in House's eyes gives him the rest of the motivation he needs to carry out this insanity. "I'm gonna shut off the monitor, get you disconnected, go put it on the table. I'll be back for the IV pole and the O2, okay?" he whispers conspiratorially. He pulls the wires from the machine and grabs it up.

When Wilson returns to the bedroom, House has already pulled the needle from the heplock, and managed to loop the tubing around the pump. And he's smiling. Wilson puts a finger to his lips and silently rolls the pole into the living room.

Still not allowing himself to think, he returns to House for the last part of the plan. Although House looks happy, he's also beginning to look a little doubtful.

"Are you sure we can pull this off? Sure you can lift me? Couple inches taller than you. Might've lost some weight, but I don't think I shrunk, too." House asks.

When Wilson looks at him, an expression of his grandmother's enters his mind; _nuthin' but a bag of bones_. "House, I've half-carried you out of more than one bar, haven't I? And you just pointed out that you weighed a little more then." _About fifty pounds more._ "I'm just transporting you, not dancing with you; height's not an issue. Just curl up small and leave it to me!" He approaches the bed. "Just lock your arms around my neck, and don't let go. I'll do the rest." _Whatever it takes…._

When he's certain that House has a good grip, he slides one hand around House's back and the other under his knees, and scoops him up in one smooth motion. He tries not to let the shock show on his face; he's able to lift the man with minimal exertion. More difficult than carrying a child, sure. But not by much.

By the time they make it to the couch, they're both smothering their laughter. Wilson looks sternly at House and whispers, "The jig'll be up if she comes out here before I get you retethered." He shoots House a mock glare. "So _shut up!_" he hisses. He quickly reconnects the monitor, the blood pressure cuff, the pulse oximeter, the O2. He's pleased to see that the monitor's still displaying sinus tach, and the O2 saturation is actually higher, 97 percent.

When Wilson reattaches the IV tubing to the heplock and turns on the pump, the loud beep startles both of them. "Damn," Wilson whispers. "Forgot about that. Get ready to look innocent." The words are no sooner out of his mouth than Cuddy appears.

The men watch, expressionless, as her eyes widen so much they threaten to take over her face. She looks from one to the other in astonishment. "_Doctor_ Wilson," she says, "May I have a word with you in the kitchen, please?"

"Sorry, Doctor Wilson's not here; he's off today—orders from the boss, you might know 'er," Wilson says with a grin. "Jimmy's filling in for him," he continues, impunity in his tone. He hears House snort behind his hand.

Cuddy takes an exaggerated, audibly deep breath. "All right, _Jimmy_ then. Principal's office. Now." She turns around and marches back into the kitchen.

House and Wilson look at each other, which is a mistake. As soon as they catch each other's eye, their held-back laughter redoubles and escapes, loudly.

"You've got until the count of three," Cuddy yells from the kitchen. "And I count quickly." Wilson attempts to compose himself as House looks at him with mock sympathy.

"Principal might paddle you," House says. "Tell her to save some for me." There's absolutely nothing in House's eyes right now but pure, unadulterated fun. Any doubt Wilson had about this plan evaporates as he heads to the kitchen, prepared to strongly defend his own foolishness.

Cuddy has her back to him as he enters and begins the speech he's quickly prepared. "Sorry, Cuddy, I know it's crazy, but I weighed the risks and benefits and, well, the benefits won. He really needed--" Wilson cuts himself off and stares in amazement as Cuddy turns around and he sees her face; her eyes are sparkling with glee.

Cuddy winks broadly at a confused Wilson before she begins to yell loudly enough to be heard easily in the living room. "Welcome to Doctor Doofus Daycare! Just which part of 'ventricular tachycardia' escaped your notice? What are you trying to do? And now, he's gonna have to _stay_ on that couch a good part of the day. What'd you do, trade in 'gray matter' for 'doesn't matter'? What were you thinking? Scratch that. Obviously, you _weren't_. Thinking, I mean. Too busy being eight years old, I guess. Now get back in there and try to remember your age. Here's a hint; it correlates with your current IQ. Go; House is probably out there setting up for a hopscotch competition; you might wanna stop him, at least until you can talk him into playing dodgeball first. Why are you still standing there? I said _go_!"

She leans close to Wilson and whispers, "Brilliant! Nothing like putting some trust and good will in the bank for the PICC line tomorrow."

Wilson, still a bit dazed at Cuddy's totally unexpected reaction, just nods at her and returns to the living room, with Cuddy right behind him. "Sit," she directs Wilson, pointing to the end of the couch.

Once Wilson is seated, Cuddy puts her hands on her hips and glares menacingly at both men. "You're grounded until further notice. _You--_" she points at Wilson, "have bathroom privileges, and that's all. And _you--"_ she aims her mock wrath at House, "don't. Only privilege _you_ have is the TV. Not that you deserve even that, but God knows, a bored House is a dangerous House. _And_, apparently, a bad influence on normally sensible oncologists. Now, _one_ of us has work to do, and I'd like to get back to it with at least the _illusion_ that you two can be trusted. So save the prank phone calls until I return your phone privileges, okay?" Two wide-eyed men nod mutely in unison as she turns on her heel and exits dramatically.

Wilson looks smugly at House, and presents him the TV remote with a flourish. House accepts it with a regal nod and laughing eyes.

In the kitchen, Cuddy's got her hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. _Those two are something else_, she thinks. _And they're so pleased with themselves that it'll never occur to either one of them that this is exactly what the Evil Witch was hoping for when I demoted Wilson—a little 'play therapy' for two little boys_. She shakes her head and returns to work with a smile on her face.


	24. Chapter 24: Conditional Changes

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Conditional Changes

The afternoon and evening pass too quickly; House and Wilson have fallen easily into the old rhythms of their friendship, and both men are actually able to forget House's current circumstances, for a while.

Cuddy tries to be unobtrusive as she carries out assessments and lab draws and tends to House's medical needs; she doesn't want to intrude any more than necessary on this short period of relaxation for the men. When Wilson refuses dinner, though, the illusion of normalcy threatens to shatter. He knows that Cuddy hasn't wanted House to eat today; food in the stomach puts added strain on the cardiovascular system. And House had been right, of course—if they'd needed to intubate, an empty stomach was far safer for the patient. "You've gotta eat something," Cuddy says. "You skipped lunch, too."

Wilson tries to send a message with his eyes and a slight shake of his head that he doesn't want to eat in front of House, but House catches it. "Go ahead, eat," he says. "Won't bother me; not hungry. I won't even try to steal anything," he says with a very small smile.

When Wilson again refuses, Cuddy and House both become annoyed. Finally, Cuddy says, "Look, I want House to try a little soup; I think that'd be okay now. We'll make it a contest; first one to finish gets to pick the next program." She tries to sound playful; she'd seen the sad look that had crossed Wilson's face as he realized how long it had been since House had stolen food from his tray at work—another clue he'd missed.

"Now you're appealing to my competitive nature!" House tells her. "Hey, Wilson, you gonna let the cripple beat you in a race?"

"No way!" Wilson says, getting into the spirit of the game. "I lose, you'll force me to watch something sappy on _Lifetime_, won't you?"

"Worse!" House says. "I Tivo'd the whole Mother's Day Movie Marathon, just for you. Been saving it for a special occasion."

Wilson groans. "He means it, too," he says to Cuddy. "Bring on the food, and wish me luck—or you'll have to suffer through it too."

In the end, although Wilson's eaten as slowly as he could, Cuddy has to declare him the winner. But at least House is feeling well enough to favor them with a full-on pout. Wilson lets him sulk for a while before announcing, "In recognition of your heroic effort in surviving Cuddy's cooking—which, by the way, was _delicious_—I've decided that we'll be watching…" he pauses for dramatic effect, "…'The O.C.'"

Cuddy and Wilson both are certain that House's triumphant grin is more enjoyable than the show's going to be, and they smile secretly at each other like indulgent parents. While House attempts, without much success, to explain the goings-on in the O.C. to Cuddy, Wilson excuses himself to make a phone call.

He goes into the kitchen and removes Dick's card from his wallet, looking for the scribbled home number. When Dick answers, Wilson apologizes for bothering him.

"James, I told you, call anytime. How are things going?"

"That's the reason I'm calling; I'm a little confused about some of the things you suggested, wanted to find out what I'm doing wrong." Wilson explains that taking charge of House's health has apparently been the right thing to do, and that House doesn't seem to mind it that much, almost seems to be comforted by it. Then he tells Dick about Cuddy's taking over today, and his being able to return to his role as House's best friend. "And it's really been beneficial to him, I think; I've enjoyed it, too. But it worries me. Won't it undermine my authority as his physician while he works through all these changes in his health?"

Dick laughs. "James, you haven't changed a bit since college! You're still as literal-minded now as you were then. I didn't say you had to be friend _or_ physician; I said you should separate the two in your own mind. I told you to 'take over' as his doctor, and apparently you've been able to do that. That's great; I'll bet it's given him a sense of security he hasn't had in a while. Now you need to give _yourself_ permission to be his friend as well, and to realize that, difficult as it is, you _can_ be both at the same time."

Wilson laughs. "Yeah, guess I did take you a bit too literally. I was afraid I'd mess everything up by letting him see me as anything other than his doctor. And I gotta be honest; it was killing me to treat 'im like that. He might like to pretend he doesn't need the friendship or the comfort, but _I_ need to offer it. And honestly, he does seem to be fighting it less these days."

"There are reasons they tell us not to treat our friends or family, James. And you're finding out what they are. But sometimes it just can't be avoided; this is one of those times. It's an emotionally difficult time for you, and it's a lot of hard work, on a lot of different levels. Not easy, but very much worthwhile."

Wilson smiles, remembering helping House through the v-tach, remembering House's laughter as they'd snuck into the living room. "You got that right, Dick. Hey, thanks for clearing things up for me."

"Any time. Give me a call in a couple of days, will you? Let me know how all of you are doing, okay?"

"Will do." Wilson hangs up the phone and returns to the living room, where House and Cuddy are happily engaged in arguing the merits of The O.C. versus some science fiction show that turns out to be Cuddy's secret vice.

"Hey guys," he interrupts them. "Look there!" He indicates the cardiac monitor, which indicates, for the first time all day, normal sinus rhythm. Cuddy and Wilson smile and look at House, who's studying the monitor.

"Well, whaddaya know?" House says. "Among her other _attributes_, turns out she's a decent doctor, too."

"High praise, coming from you," Cuddy says, and they can tell she's pleased with the awkward compliment. "And that reminds me, we need to get the final blood draw for tonight; the courier will be here in thirty minutes."

House makes a face. "Four times today. Trying to give me anemia?"

"Quit complaining; just give me an arm," Cuddy says as she gathers the supplies. "If you were in the hospital, it'd be some inexperienced lab tech with personal instructions from me to miss on the first few tries. Since I have to draw it, figured I'd spare myself the pain of having to listen to you if I missed. So you're lucky; look at it that way."

"Most perverse definition I've ever heard of 'lucky,'" House says, but he obediently holds out his arm, and even spares Cuddy his usual exaggerated expression of pain as she pierces the skin and draws the blood. "Not bad," he says, quietly.

Cuddy and Wilson look at each other, puzzled by House's subdued, almost polite behavior.

_Can't thank 'em_, House is thinking. _Least I can do is maybe not give 'em such a hard time. At least once in a while._

"Are you getting tired?" Cuddy asks him solicitously; she's trying to come up with a reason for his new demeanor.

"Yeah, maybe a little," House responds. "Been a long day."

House is able to walk to the bedroom. The fact that he's able to do this only because he has one arm looped around Wilson's shoulders, and the other around Cuddy's, bothers him, of course. _But not as much as it should; gonna have to work on that._

After House and his monitors and his medicines are settled, Cuddy says to Wilson, "I'm officially returning our patient to you. Gotta get home, but I'll be back about 7:30 tomorrow for the morning labs."

Wilson sees her out, then returns to the bedroom. He sits, wearily, in the bedside chair, gives House a tired smile.

"Go on to bed," House says gruffly. "Or in your case, couch. Be fine here; go on."

"I think I'll just sit here a little while, wait'll you fall asleep, okay?"

_I'm kind've gettin' used to this whole weird 'caring' thing you and Cuddy've got goin' on; who'd have thunk it?_ "If you insist," he grumbles, and closes his eyes.


	25. Chapter 25: Child Psychology

**A/N: **_So sorry for the delay; school started for the wee one yesterday, so currently things are a bit hectic! _mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Child Psychology

House has slept peacefully through the night; at midnight, when Wilson had awakened him for his super-Vic, he'd taken the medication and immediately returned to sleep. So Wilson had quietly administered the Zofran via the IV port, and had let the monitors give him the vitals. It was always rare for House to be sleeping this well without additional chemical assistance.

Wilson wakes him at 7:00am. After House takes his meds, Wilson begins his assessment and casually asks about breakfast. "This is your third dose of the Zofran; temp's normal, no other side effects, right?" he asks House.

"No, but not real hungry right now; maybe a little later," House responds, not looking at Wilson. _Just leave it alone for another day or two. Please._

"Yeah, maybe later," Wilson says, trying to sound like he believes it. _We've gotta do the PICC, regardless of whether he wants breakfast or not. No sense giving him a hard time about eating at this point._

"Nice the nausea's gone," House offers, hoping to emphasize something positive. _Pain's under control now, should be easier to eat. Been so long; forget what it's like to be hungry. Wilson's being way too calm lately about the whole food thing. He's got something up his sleeve, and I'm not gonna like it… no lectures, none of those disappointed looks—nope, not the usual Worried Wilson thing. So what's up?_

"Glad to hear it." Wilson's afraid to ask the next question. "Any appetite at all?"

House considers how to answer this, decides on a half-truth. "I want to eat, yeah. Just don't want to rush it."

Wilson, of course, recognizes immediately that House didn't answer the actual question. _Which is an answer in itself. Tells me that the PICC line's the right decision, at least. _"Cuddy's gonna be here soon; let's do the lab draw, okay?"

"Sure. No problem." _He sure dropped the subject fast._

Wilson draws the blood, and is labeling the tube when Cuddy arrives. He goes to the door to let her in, leaving House to ponder the conversation.

Cuddy's brought the kit for the PICC line. "How's he doing today?" she asks, handing the box of supplies to Wilson.

"Had a good night. Just had a pretty futile conversation about eating, and I think he knows something's up. Was gonna wait 'til the last possible minute, but I don't want him lying in there worrying about the unknown. So wish me luck," Wilson says. "Gotta go talk to him about the PICC." He grimaces in anticipation of a very loud conversation.

"I'm coming with you," Cuddy says. "You're gonna need reinforcements, and maybe first aid." She smiles, but Wilson is too tense to smile back.

When they enter the room together, House searches their serious faces, and knows immediately that something's up. "I take it this isn't a social call?" he asks suspiciously.

Wilson sits and takes a deep breath. "We have to talk some more about your nutritional status, House. It's not improving; it's getting worse. You're not really gonna start recovering until you gain some weight, give your body some reserves. So I've…." He glances over at Cuddy, who nods. "_We've_… decided to insert a PICC line." He crosses his arms and waits. He doesn't have to wait long.

"_No_! Not gonna happen. I'll start eating; gimme a day or two. No." Now House has his arms crossed as well.

"House, we don't have a choice; I wish we did, I wish there was another way. There isn't; you know that. You've lost maybe a quarter of your body weight these last few months, and the process has been accelerating in the past week. You're burning a lot more calories than you can take in on your own. I'm sorry, but it's our only option at this point." Wilson's trying to convey to House, as kindly as possible, that House isn't being asked for either his opinion _or_ his permission.

"Ever hear of patient consent, Wilson?" House looks trapped; his eyes are darting around the room, and his heart rate is climbing. "_This_ patient isn't consenting. At least if I were in the hospital, they'd ask me; they'd respect a 'no'."

Neither Wilson nor Cuddy thinks that this is a good time to point out that Dr. Gregory House has never respected a 'no' is his entire career.

Wilson starts to speak, but Cuddy holds up a warning hand. House has gone into 'child mode' again, and this is _her_ area of expertise.

"I understand what you're saying, House," she says warmly, empathetically. "Wilson does five of these a week, and orders another ten. He's done it in the home care setting several times. But if you'd feel more comfortable having it done at the hospital, that's perfectly understandable. It won't take me even ten minutes to arrange a bed, if that's what you want; the choice is yours."

Wilson looks on in admiration. Cuddy's effectively closed off any further argument about permission, while presenting House with the one aspect of the situation he _can_ have control over—although they both know what his choice will be.

House is silent for half a minute—Wilson's never realized just how long 30 seconds can be. Then House says, grudgingly, "Let's do it here." He looks at Wilson. "And you'd better get it right the first time."

Cuddy and Wilson look at each other for a long moment; they're concerned. House's heart rate is staying elevated, and he's pale now. Cuddy wonders if House is nervous about the procedure itself, but Wilson knows better. He knows that House is thinking about the implications of needing a PICC line; it's an acknowledgement that this is no short-term gig, and it's just one more thing that makes House more dependent, less in control.

Wilson thinks about his conversation with Dick, and he thinks that this might be a very good time to try to combine the friendship with the doctor-patient relationship. "Ya know, once the PICC's in, no more IV starts, no more blood draws—we'll be able to get the blood from the port. Your arms'll get a chance to heal. And inside of two, three days, you'll start getting some energy back. Then we can have some fun, do all the things that usually have to wait for the weekend when we're working. How 'bout we try to get tickets to a Monster Truck show, or—"

"How 'bout we don't pretend this is _not_ a big deal?" House interrupts. "How 'bout we quit ignoring the fact that I refused it? And how 'bout you just admit that you're gonna do it anyway; what I say at this point doesn't matter."

_Oh, boy._ "What do you think is gonna happen if we _don't_ do something?" _Why am I trying to reason with him? He's right; I'm gonna do it anyway._

"I'll start eating. Tomorrow, next day. Soon. Weight'll come back."

"Yeah, maybe, in a few months. Maybe. It'll slow down your recovery, your return to work. The PICC'll let us get three months of progress in three weeks. How long you think we can hide this from your team? Soon as they find out you're not gonna be back next week, the questions'll start. Cuddy can hold'em off a few weeks telling 'em we've got the flu. We get it one at a time, that's at least three weeks right there; it's laying people low for close to two weeks. What do you want her to tell them if you're not back a month from now, just 'cuz you refused a simple little procedure?"

"None of their business."

Wilson doesn't respond; House knows that they'd ask, that an answer would have to be given.

Finally, House says, "Let's just do it, get it over with. You got an x-ray set up to check placement after it's in?"

Cuddy answers carefully; this will confirm for House that the procedure's been preplanned. "I've got the mobile van coming at 2:00."

_So they decided this at least a day ago; probably more, _House thinks._ That's why Wilson was so calm about the eating thing. Well… they've been doing an okay job so far. And Wilson's… right. What the hell. _He looks at Wilson. "Wasn't kidding. You get one shot; don't screw it up."

"House, I can do this with my eyes closed," Wilson says.

"Please don't," House responds dryly, and Cuddy and Wilson laugh.

"We can wait 'til noon, if you want to," Wilson says.

"No. Now works for me. Don't want it interfering with the soaps."

Wilson retrieves the PICC line kit from the box of supplies. "Just give me a few minutes to get set up, then. Any questions?"

"No," House answers shortly; he sounds tense.

As Wilson applies the skin-numbing patch to the only remaining decent large vein in the antecubital space on the inner part of House's left elbow, a glance at House's face tells him that he _is_ tense. "You want some light sedation for this?"

"You're giving me a _choice_ about something?"

"House…" Wilson says, warning—or begging—him to behave. "Do you want the sedation, or not?"

"Trust you."

"_What?"_

"I _said_ I trust you. Reason I shouldn't?"

"Umm… no, of course not." _It's just that I never expected that phrase to come outta your mouth, that's all. _"I'm gonna go get washed up, and we'll get started."

When Wilson returns, Cuddy opens the sterile package for him. He dons the gloves and places the drape over the site after removing the patch. Wilson begins insertion of the long IV catheter which will lie in a chest vein, and thus permit infusion of nutritional fluids.

Cuddy moves to the other side of the bed, hoping to distract House. She knows this will work only if he _wants_ to be distracted. And he doesn't; he's watching the procedure intently. _Poor Wilson; nothing like having a knowledgeable audience with a big mouth._

But House remains silent, only shaking his head when Wilson asks if he's in any discomfort. As Wilson ties the last suture to hold the line in place, House finally has a comment. "Pretty good, but I would've waited on the sutures until we confirm placement."

Wilson not only refuses to be baited, he gives as good as he gets. Looking at House with a smug expression, he says, "Yeah, _you_ would've had to wait. I, on the other hand, am just that good!"

Even House can't help grinning at that.


	26. Chapter 26: Reactions

**A/N: **_Special thanks to Brynaea; it's because of her that the info about PICC line procedures was understandable in the previous chapter—she kept asking questions until I'd written it clearly. And to those of you who've written especially perceptive reviews lately, my deepest gratitude—means a lot at this point in the story! _mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Reactions

While they're waiting for the placement x-ray on the PICC line, Wilson calls the pharmacist at Hospice and consults with him at length about the proper mix of nutrients for the total parenteral nutrition. Wilson doesn't want to waste any time; he'd like to hang the first bag of TPN as soon as they've confirmed placement of the line. A carefully balanced formula is decided upon, and the pharmacist promises that the first few bags will be there by early afternoon.

Wilson can't help but smirk a bit when delivering the results of the x-ray to House, "They told me, and I quote, 'damned near perfect placement.'"

"Smugness doesn't become you, Wilson. Ever stop to think it might be _my_ textbook-perfect circulatory system? Made it _real_ easy for you."

As he hangs the first bag of TPN on the pole, Wilson rolls his eyes. "Ya know, wouldn't hurt, once in a while, to let me have my little victories."

Now it's House's turn to roll his eyes, but he lets the comment go unchallenged. "Hey, before you connect that to the line, how 'bout I get a shower? Don't really need all these monitors anymore, should be safe."

"Yeah, let me d/c the old IV and cover the PICC site. Far as the monitors go, though, another twenty-four hours wouldn't be a bad idea. This time yesterday, you were in real trouble."

"And the 'lytes from a couple hours ago were all within normal limits. What could happen?" House is clearly becoming impatient to be free of at least _some_ of the trappings of illness.

Wilson considers this. "Nothing, probably. But your luck hasn't been the best. So I still want assessments every two hours, and an hourly O2 sat. I'll d/c the oxygen too, for now, but if you can't maintain your sats on your own, it goes back on _without_ an argument. Deal?"

"Sounds fair. A little overprotective, maybe, but I'll live with it. You should know, though, that if my O2 sats _do_ drop, could be 'cuz you're _smothering_ me. I'd get less observation in the unit, _and_ it wouldn't come with a side dish of worry." _And why don't I mind that side dish?_

"Yeah, with a little coddling for dessert," Wilson says dryly. "But hey, if it's bugging you, Cuddy _did_ offer to arrange a bed…."

"No, perfectly happy with the menu here," House says. It's as close as he can come to saying he appreciates the care he's been receiving from Wilson and Cuddy, and he hopes that Wilson will get it.

"Glad to hear that," Wilson says as he discontinues the old IV site. He does, indeed, understand what House has just said, and is glad of the small task that prevents him from having to look at House as he speaks. He knows that House has become more accepting recently, of both his own circumstances _and_ of the way his friends have been protecting him. He also knows that to make a big deal out of House's comment would be to invite House to retreat back behind his walls, so the next thing he says is a change of subject. "When I heard from Cuddy earlier, she said your team still doesn't have a case. So she's making them burn up some of your clinic hours!"

"Good woman," House smirks. "Knew there had to be a silver lining to all this."

"You're all set," Wilson says as he finishes placing a waterproof dressing over the PICC insertion site. "Now, let's run down the list. Any dizziness? Nausea? Pain in the leg? Or anything else I should know about?" _Think that covers everything. Though I maybe should've phrased it 'is there anything you don't want me to know about?'_

"Nope, not a thing," House responds as he grabs his cane, stands slowly, and begins to make his way to the bathroom under his own power. _Really don't think you should 'know about' the left thigh. Could still be a pulled muscle, even a tendon. Hot shower should help._

Wilson positions the shower chair and gets the water started. "Be sure to call me if you do get dizzy, or weak. You haven't had any chance to move around; you're gonna tire quickly. We're finally starting to get you straightened out; I'm gonna be pissed if you try anything stupid."

"Yes, mother," House says, exasperated. "Wanna wash my hair for me too?"

"No…. I think you can safely handle what's left of it," Wilson deadpans as he quickly exits the bathroom.

While House is in the shower, Wilson gets the sheets changed and straightens the room. He keeps an ear out for any untoward sounds from the bathroom, and smiles when he hears House singing. Wilson checks the red code box, and makes a note of the few things that need replacing so he can let Cuddy know. Once again, he's impressed with Cuddy's wholehearted participation in all this, and he's grateful that she's taken over so many of the details.

He hears the water shut off, and listens keenly for the next few minutes, until finally he sees House, safely limping back towards the bedroom, and he allows himself a small sigh of relief. "How was the shower?"

"Great, but I'm just gonna lie down here for a few minutes. Not quite up to a trip to the living room. Did you make the walk to the bathroom a few miles longer while I wasn't looking?"

_House-speak for 'that took more out of me than I'm willing to admit'. _"I might've added a mile or two; should have checked with you first. C'mon then, get settled so I can get you hooked up."

House stretches out gratefully on the bed. "Let me see the bag."

"Aw, c'mon, House, gimme a break. The pharmacist and I went over this forty times! I even insisted that he take the arsenic out of it. Can't you trust _anybody_?" _Oops. Force of habit, I guess._

House looks mildly hurt at the remark. After a moment, he says quietly, "Not you I don't trust."

Wilson hands over the TPN bag with a quick, apologetic smile. He watches as House studies the label carefully, analytically; he can see the wheels turning.

"Well?" Wilson asks.

"You're not fooling around. Everything in here but the kitchen sink," House says. He's impressed; he can tell from the list of components that Wilson's put a lot of thought into how to do this most efficiently.

"Figure you deserve the gourmet version," Wilson says softly as he attaches the line to the PICC port and turns on the pump. When House doesn't come back with a quick retort to the affectionate remark, Wilson looks down at him, sees the fatigue written in his face. "Looks like that shower was enough activity for today. How 'bout you close your eyes for a little while?"

"Sounds like a plan," House sighs wearily, and Wilson thinks he's probably asleep before the last word is finished. He reaches over and pulls a light blanket up, arranges it gently around House's shoulders, then quietly leaves the room.

Wilson enters just as quietly an hour later; if House is still asleep, he'll forego the vitals for another thirty minutes. There's no motion from the bed, so Wilson's surprised when he notes that House's eyes are wide open and alert. "Thought you were still asleep; why didn't you call me?" he asks as he approaches the bed. As he gets closer, though, he sees that something is very wrong; House's eyes are panicked, and his lips look gray. Even as Wilson rushes across the room to the bedside, the gray cast takes on a blue tinge.

Time stops as Wilson grabs a stethoscope and discovers that House is scarcely moving any air at all, although from the way his chest is retracting, Wilson can tell he's trying very hard to breathe. The stridorous sound House is making as he attempts to breathe means his airway's shutting down quickly. House is trying to say something, but Wilson doesn't want to waste the time trying to figure it out. "Gonna be okay," he promises as he grabs the ambu bag and the intubation tray from the code box.


	27. Chapter 27: Adrenaline

**A/N: **_Again, Brynaea to the rescue, on several levels! And thanks to all for the absolutely awesome reviews on that last chapter! BTW, poor House has been home for three days, and has had three life-threatening crises, but—for those of you who are worried—I've intentionally arranged them so that they are not crises which require hospitalization. Had he been in the ER, he'd have been observed there for several hours, and then released, especially under his circumstances. Seen it happen when I worked in hospitals. And NO, I'm not gonna kill 'im. Relax:) _mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Adrenaline

House is still trying to say something, and despite the extreme difficulty breathing, he's insistent. Wilson sees that his eyes keep going down to his hand, beneath the blanket. And he continues to repeat the same two syllables.

"A… P? Not getting it," Wilson says, frustrated, as he rips into the intubation tray. When House somehow finds the energy to try to lift his hand, Wilson realizes that House _knows_ what's going on, and is trying to tell him. Wilson forces himself to stop, take a deep breath, and focus on House.

Same two syllables, same weak motion of the hand. Over and over again, as time ticks away and House's respirations grow even more ineffective. Finally, in a mixture of frustration and panic, House manages to free one hand just a bit from the edge of the blanket. Wilson pulls the blanket back the rest of the way, sees immediately that there are welts beneath the skin of House's palms, and the palms are red and swollen, and as he watches, it's getting worse. "Angioedema…" he whispers, thinking. "A P… epi? Epi! You're having an allergic reaction!"

Time, which had previously seemed to stop, starts moving again, quickly. Wilson slams the TPN pump off and grabs the epinephrine syringe from the code box. Not wasting the time to locate a vein, he injects the drug intramuscularly, into House's left thigh. Then, his own adrenaline surging, and ambu bag in hand, he watches House intently for a very long forty-two seconds, until House is able to pull in his first real breath.

As Wilson takes _his_ first real breath, he's already moving around the bed, hooking up the oxygen, turning it up to 5 liters. Hooking up the cardiorespiratory monitor. _Sinus tach; good, normal under the circumstances._ Putting the pulse oximeter on House's finger, and smiling when it reads 97 percent. Noting with satisfaction that the blood pressure is only a little elevated, much closer to normal than it has any right to be. _Much closer to normal than mine is, I'm sure_, he thinks wryly.

As Wilson auscultates House's lungs, he hears them take in air more easily with each breath, and House's ribcage is no longer retracting. With a wide smile, he says, "Okay, I'll say it before _you_ can. Yet again, you are a great diagnostician. You saved your own life. You saved yourself an unsuccessful intubation; I'll wager that by the time I got in here, your airway was pretty much shut tight. _And_ you saved yourself the ambu by no more than five seconds. Incredible," Wilson shakes his head in wonderment as he starts to backflush the PICC line, watching the blood fill it as he removes the offending TPN solution.

"Looks like we won't even have to reinsert the PICC. Lucked out on this one, all around. Now all we have to do is figure out what caused the anaphylaxis." He flushes the blood from the line with normal saline, then hooks the line to a bag of D5W and resets the pump.

"Sodium acetate," House volunteers in a raspy voice.

"What? How do you know that?"

"Only component in there that would cause this, with these symptoms," House says, holding up his hands and indicating his still-edematous palms. "And luck wasn't involved," he continues, with a bit of smugness. "Brain power," he says. "_My_ brain power," he adds—unnecessarily, Wilson thinks. "Just get the pharmacist to remove the sodium acetate; we'll be good to go."

"You got it. This time we'll go with the all-natural, totally organic, one-hundred percent preservative-free, health food version," Wilson says as he picks up the phone.

When Cuddy arrives after work with the new TPN solution, House's cardiac status has returned to normal sinus rhythm. The oxygen is down to 2 liters, and his O2 sat is holding steady at 96 percent. His blood pressure's normal and his lungs are clear. Although his palms and the soles of his feet itch, the swelling's going down. He feels so good, in fact, that he refuses the racemic epi aerosol breathing treatment Cuddy's brought.

"C'mon, House, just do it," Cuddy says. "If you'll take the aerosol, I'll tell you all about what happened today when Chase got a clinic patient, a teenager whose mother was complaining that his hair was mysteriously 'turning blue, but only on the ends.'"

House laughs in anticipation and accepts the nebulizer, then settles back to take the treatment and hear about how his nonconfrontational wombat handled the latest contender for 'medical moron of the month.'

When the breathing treatment's finished, it's House's turn to talk. And talk he does. Wilson's moving in and out of the room, replenishing the code supplies Cuddy's brought, figuring out a timetable for the TPN administration, and just generally taking advantage of having Cuddy here to monitor House for a while. It doesn't take Wilson long to figure out that House is telling the fish story to end all fish stories.

House is relating, in painstaking detail, the story of the anaphylactic reaction. Wilson's pretty sure that, somewhere along the line, House has added a couple of clueless paramedics and maybe even a defibrillation incident to the story. Cuddy, of course, knows what _really_ happened, but she's making all the appropriate impressed noises, widening her eyes at all the proper dramatic spots. And House is eating up the attention.

Wilson's in the kitchen when Cuddy joins him, laughing. "I didn't know that telling whoppers was a side effect of epinephrine," she says.

Wilson laughs too. "Hey, he's _earned_ it," he says. "Remember when you told me yesterday that House is the man who wrote Murphy's Law? Lucky for all of us that he keeps figuring out how to _break_ the law. What could've been a real crisis was averted, only because he ignored me when I told him we didn't need _three_ docs on this case. And to think, I actually got annoyed when he insisted on studying the label before he'd let me hang the TPN."

Cuddy finishes preparing a glass of ice water for House. "I'd better get back in there before he starts adding white lights and long dead relatives to the story," she says.

"Won't happen," Wilson observes with amusement. "House says all that stuff is just 'a chemical reaction that takes place while the brain shuts down,'" he points out, remembering House's lecture about the infarction and his own near-death experience. "Said he finds it more comforting to believe that life isn't simply a test."

Cuddy quickly grows serious. "Every single day of that man's life is a test," she says sadly.

"And so far, he's passing them all," Wilson tries to reassure her. "It's up to us to make sure he _keeps_ getting those good grades," he says as they head back to House's room to let him crow a little more about yet another self-orchestrated victory over imminent death. That's one story neither of them will ever get tired of listening to.


	28. Chapter 28: Rescue

**A/N:**_ Brynaea came up with the idea for this chapter—soon she's gonna qualify as collaborator! _mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Rescue

Cuddy and Wilson listen to House gloat for a little while longer, but both can tell that he's tiring and doesn't want to admit it. So Cuddy looks at her watch and says, "This story gets more exciting with each retelling, but I really do have to get going."

"Yeah, and it's time for meds and such anyway," Wilson reminds House. "I'm gonna draw the first labs for monitoring the TPN before Cuddy leaves; she's agreed to drop it off, save the courier a trip."

Wilson draws the blood from the PICC line, sees Cuddy out, then returns to the bedroom. He wants to get the meds administered and the assessment completed; he's hoping that House will fall asleep and get some solid rest.

"What's with that left thigh? Still hurting?" he asks as he sees House rubbing at it almost absentmindedly.

"You weren't exactly gentle with that epi injection," House reminds him. "The way you jammed that needle in, 'course it's gonna hurt for a while."

This explanation sounds logical to Wilson. He begins his assessment, and is pleased when both the upper airway sounds and the lungs are clear. He considers discontinuing the oxygen, but since House isn't complaining about it, Wilson decides it certainly won't hurt for him to wear it overnight. As a matter of fact, he notes, House has grown awfully quiet, even subdued, since Cuddy left; he looks almost distracted. "Everything okay?" Wilson asks, thinking it's probably just fatigue. When House simply nods, Wilson says, "I'm gonna go refrigerate the rest of the TPN; I'll be back in a few minutes." House doesn't acknowledge the comment, just closes his eyes.

Wilson's in the kitchen when he hears House call to him, and there's a note in House's voice that Wilson's never heard before—it's abject terror. Wilson drops the bowl he's holding and runs.

House is sitting bolt upright in the bed. He's sweating, and clearly struggling for breath. The cardiac monitor shows a heart rate of 118, and climbing. "It's happening again," House gasps.

Wilson is to the bedside in three steps. House's color is pale, but there's no sign of cyanosis. Wilson grabs his hands, turns them palms up—no further angioedema. House's respiratory rate is increasing alarmingly, but his lungs and upper airways are still clear, and his O2 sat is 98 percent. Wilson knows immediately what's going on; he just doesn't know how he's going to tell House. But he needs to tell him quickly; the man thinks he's dying. So Wilson starts speaking, hoping that the right words will just come out.

"House, it's okay; you're just going to have to ride this out. I'm--"

"It's _not_ okay; I can't breathe! Heart's racing, I… I…." House abruptly stops talking; he's overwhelmingly nauseated, his chest is tight, and he's certain that he's dying. _Why can't _ _Wilson__ see that something's wrong? Does he think I'm making this up? _ _Feel like I'm losing my mind! Gotta get outta here. _He starts to push the blankets back; maybe if he could just _move_, he'd be okay. He's smothering, he's trapped, he's dying. And his doctor, his _best friend_, is calmly watching it happen.

Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, right next to House, pinning the blankets in place. He grasps House's upper arms firmly. "Listen to me. Listen. It's just a reaction. I know what you're feeling. You're not gonna die, it's all--"

"I _know_ what's happening to my own body!" House shouts. "Let me _go_!" He struggles against the hold Wilson has on his arms and glares at Wilson when he's unable to break free.

"You _must_ listen to me." Wilson keeps his voice calm. "You're having a delayed reaction to the anaphylaxis; that's all. I _know_ it's frightening. But it will only last a few minutes. I'm right here; we'll ride it out together." _If I tell him it's a panic attack, he's gonna feel like he has to deny it, that'll redouble the problem. He's agitated enough already…. _

House continues to glare angrily at Wilson, but he quits struggling.

"I'm gonna let go of your arms now; I want to raise the O2 a little bit. Your sats are fine, but it might make you more comfortable. You need to work on slowing your breathing. Can you do that?"

_Maybe he's right_, House thinks. _Couldn't talk if I were smothering. Monitor's showing sinus tach; not a cardiac problem. Maybe he's right. Gotta trust him. Gotta. _House nods, meets Wilson's eyes, and Wilson slowly releases his arms, then leans over and adjusts the oxygen flow.

"Now focus on what I'm saying." Wilson speaks slowly, soothingly, looking directly into House's eyes. "The anaphylactic reaction was a stressful experience. It was terrifying. You could have died. But your brain was so busy diagnosing what was going on, figuring out the puzzle, that you didn't have time to process what was happening. Now that it's all over, and you had a few minutes to yourself, it gave you time to think about it, to react to what happened. You with me so far?" Wilson sees that House's hands are shaking, and he's still diaphoretic. His heart rate's slowed, but it's still above 100. When House doesn't answer him, Wilson places both his hands gently over House's wrists, careful not to make House feel trapped or restrained, and repeats the question. "With me on this?"

Finally, House nods slowly, and makes an effort to take a deep, controlled breath. He isn't trying to move his wrists from beneath Wilson's hands, so Wilson allows his fingers to curl lightly around the wrists, telegraphing security; House allows it.

Wilson continues to speak. "When Cuddy was here, you were able to distract yourself from dealing with what had happened by giving her all the gory details—and even embellishing a bit!" It makes Wilson unreasonably happy when he sees House actually smile at his last statement. _Okay, we're in the home stretch, gonna make it through! "_But then she left, and I went to the kitchen, and your brain went into overdrive, and your body reacted. It was just your brain's way of telling your body that it had had enough."

Wilson knows that House is well aware of all these things, but Wilson also knows that House needs to hear them, in words, from someone who cares. And that's confirmed when he feels House's right wrist turn beneath his left hand, and then House's fingers come around Wilson's wrist. Wilson doesn't pause, just keeps on talking as an idle fact drifts through the periphery of his thoughts… _it's a rescue hold_…. "And I don't blame your brain; you've been through hell these last few days. Things are just starting to straighten out, and this was a little setback, and it's over now. Normal reaction to everything that's happened, but it's over. And you're okay. You made it. You fought it, and won. You did good, House. From here on in, it'll be easier."

House hasn't removed his eyes from Wilson's face, and when Wilson pauses a moment to glance at the monitors, he sees that the expression on House's face is one he hasn't seen before; it's utter trust. Not distrust, not conditional trust—just, simply, _trust_.

Wilson has to swallow, hard, and blink a couple of times. Then he can speak. "It's over, pal. You did it. We did it."

House's gaze still hasn't wavered; he nods solemnly, once, at Wilson. Finally, he looks away. "Thanks."


	29. Chapter 29: Thoughts

**A/N: **_This chapter belongs to Betz88—'nuf said. _mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Thoughts

Wilson doesn't leave the room; he can't. He knows that House, having demonstrated trust, is now going to have to run the other way—at least figuratively. But he suddenly finds any number of things to do which will give House some emotional privacy. He doesn't verbally answer House's thanks; this is his way of acknowledging it. After a while, he settles in the chair with paperwork and a stack of journals.

House watches Wilson moving about the room, then sitting and feigning interest in the reading material, and is grateful for both his presence and his discretion. So many things have changed in the last few days—the pain control, the reversal of the downward spiral of his health, of course. Even that new thing with the left thigh. Those things are concrete, objective. He can think about those things in a scientific way, and he's comfortable with that. But other things have changed, and they're not as easy to examine, not as simple to analyze.

_Why did I decide to trust again? Didn't want to; maybe it's because I needed to. They've both been… great. I didn't deserve it; they did it anyway. But I can't let go of the anger; are they still gonna be there when they realize that? It's what keeps me going. Jimmy'd call it hurt, but he's wrong—it's anger. And I need it as much as I need them._

House actually starts, visibly, in surprise at this unexpected thought, and Wilson looks up from the chart, a question in his eyes, but silently returns to his work when House turns his head to the opposite wall.

_Where'd that come from? Need them? _House tries to reject the strange thought._ I don't need anybody; just easier that way. Appreciate what they've done, but it won't happen again. Can't. Then I'd start to expect them to be there; won't depend on anybody but me. Been doing it for years. Yeah, Wilson tries, but he hur—made me angry—too, when he didn't believe my pain was real._

House looks over at Wilson, now involved in making notes on a journal article; Wilson's concentrating on what he's doing, and doesn't look up. _He looks like hell; how long has it been since he's slept? Don't wanna be responsible for anyone else; can't even be responsible for myself—that's how I got here. Don't want to have to worry about him, too. _House sighs, and now Wilson looks up at the sound.

"Lights bothering you? It'll be time to hang a new bag soon; I can shut the lights off now if you're ready to sleep." Wilson's pretty sure he knows what House is thinking about, and that's one of the reasons he refuses to leave the room—he needs to be here when the thought process concludes; House needs to _know_ that it's okay, that Wilson understands.

"No, not tired yet. But you are. Go ahead and hang the bag; I'll switch 'em over. Go on to bed." _Too easy to feel… safe, with you sitting there. Can't get used to this. And I'm starting to; that's a mistake. _

Wilson smiles to himself. _Nope, not getting rid of me, buddy. Worked way too hard to get things to this point; you try to back away all you want—I get that you have to do that; now you need to get that it's not gonna work. But go for it. _"Thanks, I'll just stay here, if you don't mind." _There's your opening, House._

"I _do_ mind. I'll be fine; got some thinking to do. Can't think with you sitting there." _Because I can hear you caring again, and it's drowning out the stuff I need to hear, about how I gotta do this on my own._

Wilson actually laughs. "House, you could _think_ in the middle of an atomic explosion!" He makes a show of going back to his work, blatantly ignoring House's request.

_Please, Jimmy. Hard enough; you're making it harder._ House tries again, and puts annoyance in his voice."You're buggin' me. Need some privacy. Go."

"Prefer to stay, thanks," Wilson responds mildly, keeping his eyes on the abstract he's pretending to read.

"I _said_ I need some privacy! I'm entitled to that." House tries to sound truly angry.

"Of course you are, and in a little while you'll have all the privacy you want." _I'm sorry; I know you're scared, I know you want to go hide behind the biggest wall you can find. I understand that. And that's why I'm not moving. No more walls, House. Not with me. Not with Cuddy. You let us in; we're staying._

House sighs in exasperation and resumes his intensive study of the wall. _You're not getting it. I'm trying to… trying to… protect you. No one asked you to do this; you don't know what you're getting into. Sure, you've got a better idea than Cuddy, had to let you in a few times already, but now I'm trying to let you know it's not gonna work. Ask my parents. Ask Stacy. They thought they could take it. I wore 'em out. Even my mother's happy now—limited contact, she can pretend I'm fine. I'm just too much work, and I'm not worth it. Why can't you get that?_ House is becoming frustrated; he frowns, makes an impatient gesture with his hand. He's becoming agitated with his own internal dialogue.

Wilson watches covertly. _Still here, House. Fought way too hard to get here. Not going anywhere. _Wilson recalls Cuddy's story of watching House cry silently, all alone, a few days after the debridement surgery. _Couldn't be there for you then, and that hurt, didn't it? You'll never tell her, you won't tell me. But we know. And we're sorry. Not gonna happen again. Ever. Believe it._

The IV pump beeps, and Wilson rises to change the TPN bag. House watches him finish the task and turn towards the bed for his assessment. He searches Wilson's face. He's not quite certain what he's looking for—reluctance, maybe, or resentment at all the work House is causing him—but all he finds in his best friend's face is the same open, caring expression that's brought secret comfort to him so many times in the past.

As Wilson begins his exam, House is paying close attention. The gentle hand that rests warmly on his shoulder as Wilson listens to the breath sounds. The concerned concentration in the kind brown eyes during the cardiac assessment. Even the incredibly careful way he checks the PICC line dressing. And finally, the undisguised happiness in Wilson's voice when he announces quietly, "We're making some real progress," and smiles at House.

And that smile, that utterly sincere relief, decides it. House's internal arguments silence themselves as he reaches his decision. _Okay Jimmy, tried to warn you off; you're still here, you moron. And Cuddy, too—thought she was smarter than that. So we'll try it your way. I'll need some time to believe it, and, sadly, you'll give me that time, won't you? So you win. Or… maybe I do._

"I'm gonna turn the light out now, okay?" Wilson asks. "I'll just stay a few more minutes, and then I'll give you that privacy."

"No. That's okay, done thinking now. You can… stay awhile, if you want to. As company goes, you're almost tolerable."

Wilson turns to switch the light off, and both men smile to themselves in the darkness.


	30. Chapter 30: Reflections

CHAPTER THIRTY: Reflections

When Cuddy arrives the next morning, she has a plan, and she wastes no time implementing it. House, sans monitors, is already comfortably settled on the couch for the day, and he and Wilson are enjoying a cup of coffee. Rather, Wilson is enjoying his; House is sipping at his cup with little enthusiasm, but at least he's trying.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she says, smiling widely.

House turns to Wilson. "Something's up. She's figured out a way I can put in my clinic hours from the couch."

Cuddy smiles even more widely. "No, but not a bad idea; I'll give it some thought and get back to you on that. Actually, I've taken the day off." She looks at Wilson. "And _you _are going to take the day off. Get out of here. I don't care what you do, where you go, as long as it's not the hospital. In a couple of days, one of you is going to have to come down with the flu, and I don't want anyone thinking you were there while you were contagious. Besides," she says, glancing at House, "you already have a full patient load."

"You always know just what to say to make me feel special," House deadpans to Cuddy.

She ignores him and continues to speak to Wilson. "I'll stay with House. Just let me know what's going on with him, and get going."

Wilson thinks about this briefly; there _is_ something he'd like to do. "I'd appreciate it. And he's doing much better; almost no sign of the anaphylactic reaction, and--"

"Hey!" House interrupts. "I'm right here, ya know. And my mouth works just fine, thank you."

"We're well aware of _that_," Wilson tells House dryly. "But since when does the patient give report on the patient?"

"Since the patient happens to be head of the Diagnostics department," House says, mildly indignant. "And since the patient," he says, looking sidelong at Wilson, "diagnosed his _own_ anaphylactic reaction, thereby saving his own--"

"Shut up, House!" Cuddy and Wilson say in unison.

"And you're not being fair," Wilson points out to House; he's getting tired of hearing about this. "Over ninety percent of anaphylaxis cases present with visible skin lesions on the face, neck, and chest. Leave it to you to fall within the ten percent who hide them on their palms."

"Yeah, I planned that part on purpose, just to make it harder for you," House mumbles, still sulking at having been told to shut up.

"Wouldn't surprise me if you did," Cuddy observes. "And I want report from Wilson; I prefer my facts to be… well, factual."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" House isn't sure whether or not to be hurt.

Cuddy smiles at House with exaggerated patience. "You have just the slightest tendency to… umm… either underplay or overplay, House. At least when the patient happens to be… you."

"You really know how to hurt a guy." Now the sulk has become a full-blown pout. It's clear that House is having fun, and Wilson and Cuddy smile at each other.

"C'mon into the kitchen," Wilson says to Cuddy. "I'll get you some coffee, and maybe you can get report _without_ the editorializing."

House gives both of them a token glare, but immediately begins to amuse himself with the TV remote.

As Wilson pours the coffee, he tells Cuddy in a low voice about House's panic attack, and its aftermath. "You were right," he says. "Something has changed, elementally, for him. And he's apparently decided to give it a go. It was… something. Seeing him trust, without condition. Thought I'd never live long enough to see that."

"I still haven't seen it," Cuddy says. "And I may never have that privilege. I'm not even certain I deserve it."

"You saved his life," Wilson says quietly.

"Maybe that's what he can't forgive. Maybe he made the choice he did because, if he couldn't live normally, he _wanted_ to die. When I approved the surgery, I took that option away from him. And the odd thing is, I'm still not sorry I did it." Cuddy looks at Wilson, and her eyes are conflicted.

"I'm not sorry you did it, either," Wilson tells her. "And I don't think he wants to die anymore. I'm just not sure he wants to _live_."

"I know what you mean," Cuddy says. "The fight's gone out of him. But give it a little time. Maybe he didn't want to live the way he was, when the breakthrough pain and the medication and… our denial… were what his life consisted of. That's all over now, but he hasn't even had a chance yet to enjoy it. When his overall health begins to improve, maybe the fight'll come back."

Wilson smiles, but the expression doesn't hide the fatigue and the worry. "Hey, thanks for today. It'll do me some good to get away for a while, and it'll do _him_ some good not to have me hovering over him."

Cuddy laughs. "Is that your polite way of saying he'll enjoy getting away with murder because daddy's leaving him with the lenient babysitter today?"

Wilson gives her another tired smile. "No, it's…. He's got a different relationship with you. Since he's been ill, I've had to be the bad guy so much that… well, something's missing now. The equality, I guess. And I miss it. But with you, he can still be more like he used to be, before. It's good for him. Something that _hasn't_ changed. Believe me, I'm grateful for that."

Cuddy has a sudden flash of understanding; Wilson's willing to sacrifice his friendship with House, if he must, in order to save him. "You've got to be one of the most selfless people I've ever met," she tells him in admiration.

"Tell that to my ex-wives," Wilson says ruefully, but in his mind he's hearing House. '_Bros before hoes.' _And he remembers all the fights he'd had with those wives when romantic dinners and concerts and even sex had been interrupted, because House had called, had needed him. _Maybe House should be writing the alimony checks._ And then there's House's voice, again, arrogant and pleading at the same time. _'But we're okay?'_ Wilson _hopes_ they're okay after all this; he's having the same realization as Cuddy had. _Yeah, I'd give up the friendship to save the friend._

Cuddy sees how sad Wilson's suddenly become. "Hey, you look like you just lost your best friend," she says, and wants to take the words back as soon as they're said.

There's a stricken look on Wilson's face as he turns to her. "Things have changed so much," he says. "It's good; pain's under control, he's gonna regain his health. And he trusts me, maybe for the first time. As a doctor, I'll really be able to help him now. But am I gonna get _House_ back? That selfish, egocentric, brilliant bastard, who somehow still manages to be the best friend I'll ever have; is _he_ gonna come back? Or is gaining his trust gonna lose me his friendship? Because the reason it's always worked for us is we're not as different as everyone thinks we are, you know."

Cuddy's trying to understand; she sees that Wilson is tortured, that he's really thinking out his friendship with House for the first time, but she's not certain she knows how to help him through this. All she knows is that she cares deeply about both of them, so she's willing to try. "Tell me how you're alike."

"I'm as selfish as he is, Cuddy. You don't go through three wives because you're an expert at putting their needs before your own. And I've got my own ego problems. I was willing to quit my job, a job I'm passionate about, because Vogler threw me off the board. And I couldn't stand how that would make me look to my colleagues, to the medical community." He shakes his head, apparently upset with his own failings.

Cuddy reaches out, puts her hand on his arm. "I understand what you're saying. But I still see more differences than similarities between the two of you."

"And that's part of it, too," Wilson says. "One of the things that drives me crazy about him is also something I really admire. He speaks his mind, and damn the consequences. He doesn't question himself. And, while his code of ethics doesn't fit any _normal_ definition,"—Wilson pauses and smiles when Cuddy rolls her eyes at the understatement—"he never wavers from it. Might not always agree with him, but you gotta admit, that's an admirable way to live."

"I've never looked at it quite that way, but you're right," Cuddy says.

"I don't know, Cuddy." Wilson sits down and rubs at his temples. "I can't explain it any better than that, except to say that he's always been there for me. No matter what happened, no matter whether he thought I was right or wrong, he's always been there. Only one who has."

Cuddy remembers telling House during the pain control treatment that he was the one constant in Wilson's life; she hadn't realized, at the time, just how much that meant to Wilson. "You're not gonna lose House. He's there for you even when he's the _cause_ of your problems. He was down in my office ranting within, probably, a minute of your telling him you were resigning. He was willing to do for you what he wouldn't even do for himself. Hmm… maybe he isn't as selfish as he seems."

"I know all that. I even know that he cares. What I don't know is…." Wilson pauses and takes a deep breath. "This last week has stirred up a lot of demons for him. Some of them he's facing down himself. And others, _I'm_ forcing him to face. He's never gonna take care of himself; that's just… who he is. So I'll be there to do that for him. And right now, that's okay. But I'm afraid that as he gets better, stronger, he's gonna let me be his physician, but he'll shut me out as his friend. I'm afraid that he's going to realize everything I'm forcing him to deal with, and he's gonna… resent me for it."

"No, he isn't. As a matter of fact, if he didn't have an aversion to all things warm and fuzzy, he'd be _thanking_ you for it. Right now."

Cuddy and Wilson turn to stare at House as he finishes speaking, looks intently at Wilson for a long moment more, then slowly turns, leaning heavily on the IV pole, and leaves the kitchen entryway.


	31. Chapter 31: Heading Home

**A/N: **_Wanted to go ahead and get this up, as we're battening the hatches for Ernesto here in Central Florida. _mjf

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Heading Home

Wilson and Cuddy stare at each other in stunned silence, then move as one towards the living room. But Cuddy stops short and grabs Wilson's arm. "No," she says. "You stay here; give yourself a few minutes. I'll go give him the standard lecture about getting up unattended."

Wilson starts to speak, but Cuddy interrupts him. "Don't worry; I know he's… vulnerable right now. And you are, too. What just happened, though, it was… good. I'm glad it happened. Give me a little while with him, and then come join us."

"I don't know what to say to him." Wilson still looks stunned.

"You will," Cuddy assures him. "You'll know." She smiles reassuringly and leaves Wilson to process what just happened.

House is attempting to sit on the couch when Cuddy enters, but the IV pole doesn't provide the support he needs to lower himself. Wordlessly, Cuddy grasps his arms at the elbows, giving him the counterbalance he needs to sit. Then she settles next to him.

"What do you think you were doing?" she asks him gently.

He looks down, a naughty, upset little boy who's been busted. "It was boring out here. Just wanted to see what was going on. Didn't mean to interrupt."

"I'm glad you did. But I'm _not_ happy that you got up on your own. It's gonna be a couple more days before you can do that safely. Just a couple of days, House. Please. Just play it safe, okay? Let us know when you want to get up."

House still hasn't looked up. "Not gonna yell about the eavesdropping?"

Cuddy shakes her head. "No. I think it's the best thing that could have happened. How much did you hear?"

"Not much." _Enough. _"I wasn't gonna let him think anything was gonna change. I don't resent him. Couldn't." Finally, House is able to look up and meet Cuddy's gaze, and she knows he's searching her eyes for the answer to a question he can't ask.

"What you did, what you said, it was… right," she answers that question. "Wilson knew you were allowing all this, and I'm sure he even thought you might have appreciated it. But for you to _say_ it to him, even in your… umm… roundabout way, and to let him know that this isn't going to cost him his friend, his _family_, well… it means something to him. It means a lot," she finishes with a kind smile.

House still looks uncomfortable. "Why is he doing all this? Why are you helping him? Not like either one of you has a lot of free time on your hands."

Cuddy suppresses a sigh; hadn't she already covered this with him? "Let's look at this from another angle. Would you do it for him?"

"Of course," House says immediately. "Stupid question."

"And would you expect _me_ to do it for him?"

"Yes. Yeah, I would."

"And you'd be okay with all of it? You wouldn't need to analyze _why_ you were doing it? You wouldn't wonder why I'd agree to do it?"

"Wouldn't need to be analyzed. It's _Jimmy_; we'd do it."

Cuddy isn't going to force the issue; House isn't ready, may _never_ be ready, to admit that there's at least one person whose needs he'd put before his own. "There's your answer, then. '_It's House; we're doing it._' Answer enough," she continues cautiously, "when people care about someone. Whatever it takes."

House's eyes are suspiciously bright in the second before he closes them and leans his head back against the couch. "Okay."

Wilson walks quickly through the living room without looking at either of them. As he closes the front door, he says over his shoulder, "Be back."

"Not sure he should be driving," House says without opening his eyes. "He's worn out. Say where he was going?" He opens his eyes, lifts his head, and looks at Cuddy.

"No, he didn't. I'll call him in a few minutes, make sure he's all right. In the meantime, let's get you more comfortable. Report got lost in the… uh… conversation, so I guess you get to tell me what's going on after all." As she speaks, she stands up and looks to House for permission to help him swing his legs up onto the couch. When he shakes his head, she watches as he attempts to do it himself.

House is able to get his right leg up, but as he moves the left leg, there's a flash of pain in his eyes. He pauses for just a moment, tries again, and succeeds.

"Left leg still bothering you?"

"Nah. Just the injection site; it's sore, maybe a little indurated. Not a problem." House puts his hand protectively on his left thigh, and looks defiantly at Cuddy, daring her to push the issue.

_We'll follow that one up later. _"How are your vitals?"

"Dunno. Sure Wilson wrote 'em down somewhere; he didn't tell me."

_And, amazingly, you didn't ask. When you decide to trust, you don't do it halfway, do you? Doesn't surprise me, though. You don't do anything halfway. _"I'll check and see; if not, I'll need another set." Cuddy heads to the bedroom and returns carrying the makeshift chart.

"You're right; they're here, and they look good," she says as she gathers the supplies for the lab draw and shuts off the TPN pump.

---

Wilson is headed towards the interstate. It's quiet in the car; he needs to think. He realizes that he should call Dickinson, let him know he's coming, so he picks up his cellphone. _Wait a second; what am I doing? The reason for this visit… talked it out with Cuddy. And House; he must've heard most of it and… well, it's all right. All right. Hard to believe, but House understands. He said so. In words. Funny, I don't see any flying pigs…. _With a small smile on his face, Wilson puts his cellphone down and turns on the car's blinker.

---

"You haven't called Wilson yet," House reminds Cuddy as she closes the door after handing the lab package to the courier.

"I'll take care of that in just a few minutes," she promises him. "First, I want to make you an egg, a piece of toast maybe. Just a bite of each, okay? Gotta start getting your body used to food again."

House considers. "I might be a little bit hungry. An egg sounds good. Fried?"

"How 'bout we start with scrambled, see how you do with that, before we get fancy?"

"Is that an actual question? As in, you're giving me a choice? Or is it a _statement_, deceptively phrased as a question, to make me _think_ I have a choice?" House's grumble sounds good-natured, almost amused.

Cuddy laughs. "Busted. Yeah, okay, I was trying to make the statement sound like a question. You're getting scrambled. Clear enough?"

"Now, see how easy that was? Statements are so much less ambiguous when _not_ phrased as questions. '_You're getting a scrambled egg_' would've covered it nicely; no confusion."

On her way to the kitchen, Cuddy stands before him, hands on her hips. "Enough, House. Or the next _statement_ you'll hear will be '_you're_ wearing_ a scrambled egg_.'"

House smiles. "Threatening to assault me with food; now I _know_ I must be getting better."

Cuddy smiles back at him, and both smiles are warm and genuine, and when Wilson opens the front door and sees them, he feels like he's just come home.


	32. Chapter 32: Resolution

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Resolution

**A/N: **_And another wonderful ride comes to an end; this one was more like a roller coaster, though. There are absolutely no words to express my appreciation to all of you, and most especially to those who have stuck with this—and me—since the inception of 'The Devil, You Say.' _mjf

Both of Wilson's friends turn to him as he enters, puzzled at his early return.

"Everything okay? Forget something?" Cuddy asks.

"Well, yeah, I forgot to give you report, and I'm kinda tired to be driving, and…." Wilson's voice trails off; he looks down at the floor.

In her mind's eye, Cuddy sees him, an eight-year-old boy, swaying back and forth and scuffing his feet as he prepares to make a request he's certain will be turned down. An important request.

"I pretty much got report figured out from your notes," she tells him. "And… uh… that's what cellphones are for, I think. But if you're too tired to drive, that's another matter entirely. I'm gonna go fix some breakfast for House; I'll let you two figure this out."

Wilson still hasn't looked up, and now he actually _is_ scuffing his foot on the floor; Cuddy smiles and takes pity on him. "Do me a favor, and join House for breakfast. I've already eaten, and it wouldn't be much fun for him to eat alone."

Wilson finally looks up, and over at House, who leans towards him and whispers conspiratorially, "Hey, tell 'er you want your eggs _fried_."

Wilson relaxes just a little, and says to Cuddy, "You heard the man; fry 'em."

As Cuddy heads to the kitchen, House says to Wilson, "Gonna stand there all day? You're missing yesterday's General Hospital."

Wilson appreciates that both Cuddy and House have recognized that he feels ill at ease, and are trying to make it easier for him. But since House had interrupted his conversation with Cuddy, Wilson's discomfort at having been overheard by House hasn't abated. He wonders how much House had heard. And, while he _wants_ to be happy that House doesn't resent his interference, he's not certain he believes it yet. And there's one more thing.

Wilson sits down in the chair, glances at House, and then away. He fidgets with his car keys, puts them in his pocket, removes them, fidgets some more.

"Something on your mind?" House asks, keeping his eyes trained on the TV screen.

"No," Wilson says. House nods without comment. But when Wilson starts tossing the keys hand to hand, and then adds the rhythmic tapping of his left foot on the floor, House sighs and mutes the television.

"So why don't you tell me what's _not_ on your mind," he says to Wilson.

"Probably shouldn't be driving today; I'm really tired."

"Stating the obvious, glad we got that out of the way, always the hardest part," House says, but his tone isn't unkind.

"Well, I was thinking… my day off, right?" House nods patiently. "And I'm supposed to relax, do what I want to do." He looks hopefully at House.

Again House only nods; he's looking mildly amused—a benevolent cat with a mouse he has no intention of harming—but he has no intention of _helping_ the mouse escape, either.

"See, it's like this, uh, I'd kinda like to… uh… just stay here. At… umm… home. If that's okay."

Now House isn't bothering to try to hide his amusement at Wilson's discomfiture. "Let me get this straight. Cuddy's given you a day off from me. And you want to spend it with… me. Not for medical reasons. Not 'cause Cuddy might need you for backup like the other day. Just because I'm such wonderful company?" House smirks at him.

"Yeah, that would be it," Wilson retorts sarcastically, as something inside him slips comfortably back into place. _Yeah, that would be it. Can't think of a better place—or a better person—to spend a little free time with._

Cuddy enters the living room with their breakfast, and Wilson moves over to sit next to House on the couch. As soon as Cuddy's back is turned, House reaches over to spear some fried egg from Wilson's plate. He turns the volume back up on the TV, and starts explaining the convoluted plot to Wilson. After the second glorious food heist—which Wilson is, of course, obligated not to notice—Wilson casually picks up his plate so that it's out of House's reach, and tries to hide his smile.

House is so involved in trying to explain the TV show that he doesn't seem to be aware that he's actually eating his breakfast. But Wilson is very much aware, and exaggerates his reactions to House's comments, hoping to keep House engaged in the conversation, and not in the process of eating. It isn't until House's plate is empty, and House is shouting to Cuddy for a refill on his coffee, that Wilson allows his grin to widen. When House looks at him quizzically, Wilson indicates House's empty plate, his empty cup.

House grins too, and when Cuddy enters with the coffee pot, he says to her, "Hey, look mom! Finally made it into the Clean Plate Club."

Cuddy laughs. She picks up the empty plate, and the look of satisfaction on her face is unmistakable. "Keep this up, and we'll be able to run the TPN only at night," she tells House.

"Let's not get carried away just yet," Wilson says in his doctor voice. "It's only one meal, and--" He cuts himself off quickly when he sees that both House and Cuddy are glaring at him. "Sorry?" he offers, abashed. "Didn't mean to contradict the physician on duty, and I certainly didn't mean to take away from the accomplishment of finishing a meal, and… and… okay, I'll just shut up now," he finishes, lamely, when he sees that they're both still glaring at him.

"Shutting up; good plan. 'Cuz I can always fire you," House mutters darkly, but there's affectionate amusement in his eyes, and they all realize that he really _has_ begun to reach acceptance, finally, in his years-long grieving process.

"You _can't_ fire me," Wilson chances. "Took you too long to break me in; who else would put up with you?"

"_Any_ doctor would be honored to have such a complex case, such an informed patient!" House protests.

"Doctor? Go ahead and fire me from that; give it back to Cuddy. I was talking about the position of best friend," Wilson says challengingly.

"Some best friend _you_ are," House gripes. "Complaining all the time about having to buy me lunch, and the way I talk to patients, and the way I _don't_ talk to patients, and the way I drive, and even accusing me of stealing your food, and--"

"House…." Cuddy warns.

Wilson's laughing. "No, let 'im go," he tells her. "Every insult he throws at me is just more _proof_ of my job security. Who else would be insane enough to want it?"

"Got a point," Cuddy concedes, looking meaningfully at House, who's busy trying to come up with more insults.

Cuddy, Wilson, and House look at each other, and the three of them begin to laugh. And if House's laughter is a little louder, a little more forced than that of the other two, no one notices. _And that's a good thing_, House reflects, as he continues to laugh his way through the sudden sharp spasm in his left thigh. _Because there's no damned way I'm gonna ruin their moment of triumph now. Something tells me they're really here for the long haul. I might mention it tomorrow._

And the genuine laughter of his self-made family continues past his pain.

**A/N: **_Umm… sorry. But see, they still have three weeks off, so I had to leave something unresolved if this is gonna become a trilogy… didn't I? _mjf


End file.
